124
The Way of the Cross
As if they were going to heaven.
And, never ceasing, loudly they sing.
They do not complain, but give praise.
There arises a voluminous cloud of white dust, that you cannot see through.
The sort of cloud that a herd of cattle will raise, and of herds, only a herd of sheep.
The shadows of sheep, but not sheep.
Wasted, Skeletons.
—What do you make of the sheep?
—Bought by the Government.
—Where do you drive them from?
—From Lublin province itself.
—How many?
—There were fifteen hundred, but three hundred have died by the way.
In the villages the peasant women stand with armfuls of white bread, which are baked here in saiki.[1]
- ↑ Saiki, that is, in layers, as we might bake large rolls in England, a dozen or so together.
