Soccer Ball
L
Leo Yankevich
0
Altın Yaprak
The soccer ball beneath the lamp—
the noggin of a commissar
the refugees kicked at the camp,
that bounced, but did not roll too far?
What crow picked at its beady eyes
behind a backdrop of deceit,
and bore them over paradise
to open gates, a German street?
And did the trunk, in bloody clothes,
lie like a statue in a pool,
the guillotine hold a red rose
amid the jeers come from the soul?
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