FRIEZE WITH FIGURES OF WORKINGMEN

Suddenly they loom up; they are not dead,
and if they are silent it is because
words are for senseless things—
like saying it's cold, when there are
little red icicles on one's tongue.

What distant music, what predestined
tempo imposes its rhythm on their amazed
awakening each day? They are not dead;
with every dawn a heart is bestowed upon them.

The frieze is painted faded blue, like deep water,
like a river touching ever-new shores, seeking
a sea of lime and clay, a depth
of mineral dust that boils and sings.

Poplar groves and rose gardens stretch before them,
fragrance of rich earth comes to them.
They are like marble statuary in the sun,
shining as if with the cold sweat of some hidden anger.
But they never stand still; are they really dead?

They walk with proud unconcern, listening
within themselves to far-off echoes.
Are they studying
the entire testimony of tomorrow?

These dead live without knowing it. But they
live so fully that something—neither light nor airstirs
palpable echoes in their blood.

If they wanted to cry out, they would do it,
because they are not really dead—they know the word
that is only cried aloud in a dream,
a word like a bull, violent and savage.

They burst upon our sight
from what secret
springs of life abiding
as part of all men's hope,
bearing the future on their shoulders.