Poesía

Shostakovich

Who knows what is really at the core of our suffiering,

Whether it is not the infant’s break from the breast,

Or the first recognition that all is not dawn,

That is at the bottom of misery,

Underlying the murder of six million,

Explaining the crystalline ice-cold tinkling

Of Siberian prisons. -

Who can be sure what philosophy or art

Or religion or science

Really has the best measure of it. if it has one at all?