Polish Poetry
[Translated by Danuta Romanowska]



You cried, Mother,
at the feet
of your Son…
but I could not cry
when my son was burned by the enemy
on the grates at Auschwitz…
You saw Him risen from the dead,
but I only believe that my son has risen.
You saw the crown on His head,
I did not see
even the nail in his wound.

My son
was small,
and had eyes
like a flower.
Your Son carried the cross;
Mine served as the target of German executioners.
Your pain was tremendous.
Mine was not smaller.
You could cry at the grave of your Son.
I sing of mine only through this poem.
is the name
of your Son.
My son's name
disappeared in the smoke
of the Auschwitz chimneys…
My son is the dust of the earth.
I call:
on your earth,
and on my earth,
on the earth of your Son,
and on the earth of my son,
the bells are ringing today:
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Victory! Victory! Victory!

Author Unknown



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