Page 24 - Issue 28

NOT ALL OF ME WILL DIE
By Zuzanna Ginczanka, Polish-Jewish poet and
Holocaust victim.

Non omnis moriar – not my proud estate,
Meadow table cloths, wardrobe castles strong,
Acres of fine bedsheets, linen treasures great,
And dresses, light dresses – these are my swan song.

Because I leave behind not a single heir,
Let your hungry hands through my Jew things
browse,
Ms Chomin of Lviv, landlady betrayer,
Nazi true informant, if conscience allows.

You and your loved ones, recall my name and face
As you remembered me when the Gestapo came,
Minding to lead them to my hiding place.
They recognised me then. Now, remember again

As you drink to my grave and supposed wealth:
Fine drapes, candlesticks, my remains your prize:
Goblets raise, friends, to your lasting health,
Drink all night, drink! And when the cockerel cries

Start hunting for gemstones, digging round for gold
Through mattresses, sofas, furnishings what may
The bounty you seek, the treasures you want hold
As you go tearing through stuffed horsehair and hay.

Feathers ripped from cushions, clouds of gutted
quilts
Will snow upon your hands, turn your arms to wings,
Pure white down will bind with my blood congealed,
Letting you take fight, my angels, my kings.