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Paul Celan, "Death Fugue"
Black milk of daybreak we drink in the evening
midday and morning
we drink and we drink
dig a grave in the air there's room for us all
The man in the house he plays with the snakes and he writes
A letter to Germany at dusk
your golden hair Margarete
he writes this and walks out to meet shining stars
he whistles his dogs to him
he whistles his Jews to work: a grave in the earth
and music for dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink in the night
morning and midday and evening
we drink and we drink
The man in the house he plays with the snakes and he writes
A letter to Germany at dusk
your golden hair Margarete
dig a grave in the air, there's room for us all
You there dig deeper you there play louder
He takes the iron from his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
You there dig and you there dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink in the night
midday and morning and evening
The man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the snakes
Sing death sweetly Death is a master from Germany
Fiddle away darkly And rise as smoke in the air
To a grave in the clouds there's room for us all
Black milk of daybreak we drink in the night
and midday death is a master from Germany
evening and morning we drink and we trink
Death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue
he meets you with lead his aim ever true
The man in the house your golden hair Margarete
his dogs are upon us he gives us a grave in the air
he plays with the snakes and he dreams death is a master from Germany
your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith
Translation (c) Timothy Snyder
Poetry After Auschwitz
From his Speech on the Occasion of Receiving the Literature Prize of the Free Hanseatic City of Bremen:
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss. But it had to go through its own lack of answers, through terrifying silence, through the thousand darknesses of murderous speech. It went through. It gave me no words for what was happening, but went through it. Went through and could resurface, 'enriched' by it all.
- Paul Celan
Postcard 4
by Miklós Radnóti
his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary
translated by Michael R. Burch
I toppled beside him — his body already taut,
tight as a string just before it snaps,
shot in the back of the head.
"This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here,"
I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread.
"Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered;
I could only dimly hear
through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear.
Translator's note: "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching."