Rakhil

by Marc Chagall

Long, long ago the marble slab on the grave of my little sister, Rachel, disappeared. She wasted away as the result of eating charcoal. At last, pale and thin, she breathed her last sigh. Her eyes filled with the blue of heaven, with dark silver. Her pupils became fixed. Flies hovered around her nostrils. No one drove them away.
I got up from the chair, drove them away, and sat down again. I got up again and I sat down again.
My eyes were scarcely wet when I saw the candles lighted at the head of her bed. An old man stood by her side guarding her all night long.
And to think that, in few hours, that little body will be lowered into the earth and men's feet will trample on it!
No one gives a thought to dinner. My sisters have hidden behind the curtains at the door, they weep, press their ten fingers to their mouths and dry their tears with their hear and their blouses.