It Is Not My Window
It is not my window
and it is not my patch of snow.
In a strange house, I lie awake
in a strange night.
In a strange land, I pray
to a strange God.
Whence?
Whither?
Asks a star in the sky,
But I am silent,
like a lost letter.
(Warsaw, 1938)
Translated by Barnett Zumoff
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