Letter from America

You write that in the Far East where you are

They cut down the trees and leveled them to the ground

Where fire stood and laughed and screamed, where birds

Flocked to partake with the festival, but were silenced

By the barking of guns; and their story is the history

Of leaves when inviolate guerdons shake the trees.

You tell me that the mountains are tunneled, the hills

Dug out and thrown into the rivers, and the rivers

Are emptied; you tell me that the fields are planted

With camps, houses, buildings, and the garden where

We had gathered roses for the queen of spring

Is now a stable for horses, and our house is a sleeping

Quarters for soldiers.

You ask me why, and what shall I say?

What could I say in words?

I sit here fingering actualities, thinking of what

Cities I have seen indistinguishably - like rain;

But could I answer your questions with these?

In any case you would not approve of pictures,

And this makes us one. For in this city where

The streets scream for life, where men are hunting

Each other with burning eyes, mountains are made of sand,

Glass, paper from factories where death is calling

For peace; hills are made of clothes, and trees

Are nothing but candies.

In these we are almost the same. And now that I look

Out of the window I see our America bleeding.

I do not know of any answer to tell you.