a poem titled “History,” unpunctuated in the original, which they translated as follows: The flag falls to the ground and from a radio box comes the voice of a god— hollow, trembling, sorrowful. This moment must be recorded in history. Falsely created pages of myth are closed on this day. People’s eyes are newly opened and gaze at the reality around them. Appallingly ruined streets, corpses already removed without a trace, only resentment remains. Harboring the resentment of those who perished in the conflagration, weeds spread over the ruins. August 15 piles upon August 15. Between those
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