I knew the poem on Stalin was coming. For so long Osipwas silent. But standing next to him I could feel thetremors running through his body. Heat rose off hishead and darkness filled his eyes: the poems were risingwithin him. Soon they would erupt. This was a naturalcourse and I never thought of stopping it any more thanI would have attempted to stop the coming season.These poems would destroy our lives. But how could Iblame him? When a mountain explodes it does not say“my lava will burn the village below.” Years ago he tookan oath, one hand on The Divine Comedy the other on ablank piece of paper. Arrest, interrogation and whateverfollowed were not his concern. And so we were villagersliving under the volcano.We knew the power of hispoetry, the strength of our straw huts.
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The Writing of That Poem
written byAaron Rafi
© Aaron Rafi
