Near Belsen, after thirteen years,
Low clouds above the meadows shudder.
Below me mustard. Small ripe pears
Are being picked from a high ladder.
The scant tableau suggests dispersion:
Few of the living can complain.
Germany, in this quiet version,
Is laboring. It starts to rain;
And, as I leave them to their toil,
Tomatoes hang in clumsy rows.
Ahead, propped in the soft black soil
The brazen star of David grows.