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