"Out of frayed sackcloth - breasts of filthy cataracts,

Like raw potatoes, branched with rooted blue veins.

What shall we trade? Salt? How much do you want?

There’s a dead child’s hat still here.

In the marketplace, a surveyor dozes like a white skull-

A homeless dog sniffs him as he would an old cadaver.

What shall we trade? Bread? How much do you bid?

A pack of dogs in the street tears a heap of rusted brains into bits.

And birds in the air flap like scattered black hats-

A disheveled tuft of wind keeps trying them on-

Is there a deal? Wind? What do you bid for a windmill?

There, across the foothills, they aimlessly quarrel over eagles’ wings.

Making a trade? Wind? What do you bid?"

— Peretz Markish (1895-1952)