La meva sang farà que tornin àngels
Non omnis moriar
Zuzanna Ginczanka (1917-1944)
Zuzanna Ginczanka (1917-1944)
Non omnis moriar. My grand estate—
Tablecloth meadows, invincible wardrobe castles,
Acres of bedsheets, finely woven linens,
And dresses, colorful dresses—will survive me.
I leave no heirs.
So let your hands rummage through Jewish things,
You woman of Chomino, you from Lvov, you mother of a Volksdeutscher.
May these things be useful to you and yours,
For you are near and dear to me; no lute playing, no empty words.
I am thinking of you, as you, when the Gestapo underlings came,
Thought of me, in fact reminded them about me.
So let my friends break out holiday goblets,
Celebrate my wake and their wealth:
Kilims and tapestries, bowls, candlesticks.
Let them drink all night and at daybreak
Begin their search for gemstones and gold
In sofas, mattresses, blankets and rugs.
Oh how the work will burn in their hands!
Clumps of horsehair, bunches of sea hay,
Clouds of fresh down from pillows and quilts,
Glued on by my blood, will turn their arms into wings,
Transfigure the birds of prey into angels.
—Traduït del polonès per Nancy Kassell i Anita Safran
Tablecloth meadows, invincible wardrobe castles,
Acres of bedsheets, finely woven linens,
And dresses, colorful dresses—will survive me.
I leave no heirs.
So let your hands rummage through Jewish things,
You woman of Chomino, you from Lvov, you mother of a Volksdeutscher.
May these things be useful to you and yours,
For you are near and dear to me; no lute playing, no empty words.
I am thinking of you, as you, when the Gestapo underlings came,
Thought of me, in fact reminded them about me.
So let my friends break out holiday goblets,
Celebrate my wake and their wealth:
Kilims and tapestries, bowls, candlesticks.
Let them drink all night and at daybreak
Begin their search for gemstones and gold
In sofas, mattresses, blankets and rugs.
Oh how the work will burn in their hands!
Clumps of horsehair, bunches of sea hay,
Clouds of fresh down from pillows and quilts,
Glued on by my blood, will turn their arms into wings,
Transfigure the birds of prey into angels.
—Traduït del polonès per Nancy Kassell i Anita Safran
(Més o menys:
«Non omnis moriar. La meva gran finca–
prats d’estovalles, castells invencibles de guarda-roba,
quarterades de roba de llit, roba blanca finament teixida,
i vestits, vestits de colors– em sobreviurà.
No deix hereus.
Que les vostres mans rebostegin les coses jueves,
dona de Chomino, de Lvov, mare d’un Volksdeutscher.
Que aquestes coses us siguin de profit a vosaltres i als vostres.
Perquè us tenc a prop i us estim; sense músiques, sense paraules vanes.
Pens en vosaltres, com vosaltres, quan venien els sequaços de la Gestapo,
pensàveu en mi, més aviat féreu que es recordassin de mi.
Que els meus amics trenquin les copes tot brindant,
que celebrin la meva vetla i la seva riquesa:
estores i tapissos, escudelles, espelmes.
Que beguin tota la nit i en sortir el sol
que comencin a cercar joies i or
per sofàs, matalassos, flassades i catifes.
Oh com els cremarà la feina dins les mans!
Mates de cli, grapades d’alga,
núvols que cauran de coixins i vànoves
s’aferraran damunt ells amb la meva sang, els convertiran els braços en ales,
transfiguraran els ocells de presa en àngels»).
escrit per Nicolau Dols a les 13:52
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