To A. G.
Like some England some France
Our land at the hour of sunrise
Birds will go blind and flowers and trees go deaf
But to me God himself today has said a rude word
Either I am a saint
or more likely Our Lord resembles a cabbie
He whispers such a word to each maiden
that she will go out on a Sunday morning
to feed the foal the ant the lame cat from a bright-colored dish
But on good days our Lord is a captain
And to a square full of clerks, guardsmen, and barmen
in a foreign, heavenly, beautiful language
he speaks such a word that the ears are closed tight
Lord, give me not for ever but henceforth
a soft suit, ordered in summer in Warsaw,
there are little pleasures, apart from rhyme
raisins from the pocket, for instance, and other crumbs.
[Theresienstadt, April 1943]
Translated by Peter France