Portraits. Women in White

Standing upright, in white.
Arms folded beneath her breasts.
A gaudy little bag on her shoulder.

She sang beautifully and sadly. She paused in strange places.
Now with many flourishes in a children's song,
now letting her voice spread out, long and wide.
High up and to the east.

In the drawn-out rhythm of the Don Gypsies.
From song to song…

And behind her back the water ran
from the spouts near the Central Market Halls.
And the people rinsing their bottles
looked up for a moment before bowing their heads again.

"How can this be? Who sings like that? In the street, in front of the trams.
Only the mad. Only the mad sing there."

Then some noticed the little box
with a few coins at her feet
and stopped hearing the song.

For a moment they marvelled
at how clean the white clothes
of a beggar woman could be.

"But even the mad, even the mad who sing,
can come up with excuses."

It is so easy to excuse your song
with a little hunger and need.
The others leave you in peace at once.

You have explained to them why you are there.
And that is enough for them.
The song does not matter.

A little girl dressed in white
leaned on the railing to listen
to the murmur of the water and the mad melody of life.