A Strange Feeling

"The plum trees
                are in bloom
—the wild apricot flowers first,
the plum last. . .

My love,
let's sit
knee to knee
on the grass.
The air is delicious and light 
—but not really warm yet—
and the almonds are green
                        and fuzzy, still
                               very soft. . .

We're happy
                because we're alive.
We'd probably have been killed long ago 
if you were in London,
if I were in Tobruk or on an English freighter...

Put your hands on your knees, my love 
—your wrists thick and white—
and open your left hand:
the daylight is inside your palm
                        like an apricot. . .
Of the people dead in yesterday's air raid,
                        about a hundred were under five,
twenty-four still babies. . .

I like the color of pomegranate seeds, my love 
—a pomegranate seed, seed of light—
I like melons fragrant,
my plums tart..."

. . .a rainy day
far from fruits and you
—not a single tree has bloomed yet,
and there's even a chance of snow—
in Bursa Prison,
carried away by a strange feeling
and about to explode,
I write this out of pigheadedness
—out of sheer spite—for myself and the people I love.

                                                  7 February 1941