Sometimes it is the last day. Sun shines still,
a horse crosses the tram-line, pulls a cart
loaded with sacks. We see, but have no art
to know what's in them. Further up the hill
two women talk, hurry across the street
Did they survive next day? We'll never know,
though we see as they run, their long skirts blow
up from their ankles, while they keep their neat
manicured hands to hold their hats on tight.
And everything we see burned or fell down
twenty hours later. Horse and girls and town
all buried, ashes, dust. Out of our sight
they go, and out of life, and all we've seen
not memory, just fragments on a screen.
I forgot to thank jonquil for posting me to this clip...