Jews of various religions meet
in the tunnels of the Métro, rosary beads
spilled from someone’s tender fingers.
Above them priests sleep after their Lenten supper,
above them the pyramids of synagogues and churches
stands like the rocks a glacier left behind.
I listened to the St. Matthew Passion,
which transforms pain into beauty.
I read Death Fugue by Celan
transforming pain into beauty.
In the tunnels of the Métro no transformation of pain,
it is there, it persists and is keen.