Still (ca. 1957) by Wislawa Szymborska

I have always loved this poem. It sounds like rattling boxcars by the end, especially if you read it aloud. Ms. Szymborska also knows how to fold multiple meanings into one word, and her translators have kept that for us (no small feat). The title, for instance: it means quiet but also ongoing. This poet lived behind the Iron Curtain. I have found at least one other packed place in the poem. Maybe you'll find others.

Still
Across the country's plains
sealed boxcars are carrying names;
how long will they travel, how far
will they ever leave the boxcar--
don't ask, I can't say, I don't know.

The name Nathan beats the wall with his fist,
the name Isaac sings a mad hymm,
the name Aaron is dying of thirst,
the name Sarah begs water for him.

Don't jump from the boxcar, name David.
In these lands you're a name to avoid,
you're bound for defeat, you're a sign
pointing out those who must be destroyed.

At least give your son a Slavic name;
he'll need it. Here people count hairs
and examine the shape of your eyelids
to tell right from wrong, "ours" from "theirs."

Don't jump yet. Your son's name will be Lech.
Don't jump yet. The time's still not right.
Don't jump yet. The clattering wheels
are mocked by the echo of night.

Clouds of people passed over this plain.
Vast clouds, but they held little rain--
just one tear, that's a fact, just one tear.
A dark forest. The tracks disappear.

That's a fact. The rail and the wheels
That's a fact. A forest, no fields.
That's a fact. And their silence once more.
That's a fact, drums on my silent door.

--Wislawa Szymborska
Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh