Sometimes we are tied down by memories
and there are no scissors that could cut
through those tough threads.
You see the bridge there by the House of Artists?
A few steps before that bridge
gendarmes shot a worker dead
who was walking in front of me.
I was only twenty at the time,
but whenever I pass the spot
the memory comes back to me.
It takes me by the hand and together we walk
to the little gate of the Jewish cemetery,
through which I had been running
from their rifles.
The years moved with unsure, tottering step
and I with them.
till time stood still.