Hey, Women . . .

Peretz Markish

1920

Hey, women, spotted with typhus and riddled with rakes of fingers
Across autumn heads of woe,
Are you fruitful? Do you multiply? How many times each?
In whorehouses? On floors?
In the stable? In train stations?
In culverts, like bitches?
How many times, each?
In a moment, a train, like a coffin, will go into the earth—
Up on the roof! Lift your…
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