Meadows of tablecloths, wardrobes like fortresses
In my kingdom there will be no succession.
Vast sheets, precious linen and my dresses,
My pastel dresses will be left here after I close the door.
I have left here no heirs, only eager traitors,
So may you ransack my rooms and shatter them all.
Ms Chominowa from Lviv, resourceful wife of a collaborator
And Volksdeutscher’s mother. Sometimes the best business is war.
May my things serve you well, since I cannot stay.
My dear ones, could I have expected more
the night when the Schutzpolizei came and you gave me away?
Let my friends sit down, each one with a glass of wine,
And drown in them my burial – and their own delight.
Tapestries, platters, candlesticks – all which used to be mine
Will now be theirs, so may they drink all night.
And at the break of dawn may they search for gems and gold
In sofas, mattresses, quilts, in all my precious things.
Oh, how skillfully they will search for all that can be sold
In bundles of tow, horse hair and strings.
Pillows will fill the air with clouds of whirling feathers,
which will stick to their hands and turn them into wings.
After all if not by them, it will be done by strangers.
And my blood will glue the wings and tow together
So they will cease to be human and become angels.