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Danse Macabre
The ribbons in their hats are gay,
On their lips an ancient song,
Through windy alleys, gusty-grey,
Recruits go drunkenly along.
Grey as iron is the street,
Bullet-grey, no sunshine glance.
Do not the blowing ribbons beat
In ghastly time a funeral dance?
Laco Novomesky
Translated by David Daiches