I went inside into the darkness of the great vault
where all the tiny lights of dead children
were trembling as in a night sky.
A voice was reciting, never ceasing,
the list of their names, a prayer
so sad no God has ever heard its like.
I thought of Joana. Dead children
are always inside that same darkness
where memories are lights and the lights are tears.
I am too old not to weep for them all.
I have constructed buildings like cattle-trucks
with skeletons of iron. Huge trucks
that will one day come back and drag people
off to an end they already picture.
Because everyone has seen the truth,
merely a gleam on a puddle of dirty water.
The hall of the dead children is inside me.
I am too old not to weep for them all.