I'll tell it to you warm 
from auschwitz ovens 
I'll tell to you cold 
from kolyma snows 
a story of dirty hands 
a story of hands chopped off

you won't find it in textbooks 
it would stain 
the blank spaces 
on the map of time and times

I'll tell you a story 
the unwritten 
the indescribable one 
which occasionally comes 
to watch the exhuming of dreams 
in proof I have silence
shot straight through 
that's why I'm whispering
I'll tell you a history, a story

But don't repeat it

Ex-Jewish Things

She's got a wardrobe from which 
the dresses managed to escape 
they would have gone out of style anyway

an armchair from which 
somebody once got up 
just for a moment 
that lasted the rest of his life

pots and pans full of hunger 
but handy when 
you want to eat your fill

portrait of a murdered girl 
in living color

she could also have gotten a black table 
good condition 
but she didn't like its looks

sad somehow

From the History of Journalism

The namelessly dead
the meticulously murdered
on ghetto sidewalks
were covered with newspapers
until they were carted off

newspapers since then
with increasing circulation
have diligently served
to cover up the truth
that's lying spread-eagled on its back

as long as it's not breathing
and doesn't raise its head
otherwise the swarming letters
the blowflies, the fleshflies of words
would rise up buzzing from the startled sheets
in search of other prey

How to Spoil Cannibals' Fun

For a long time I've been 
wondering how to spoil 
cannibals' fun

wait until they 
bake themselves 
beneath the golden lid of the sun 
but the cooking would just 
toughen them up

not let them 
eat you 
the program holds no food for thought 
and is not entirely realistic 
when 
they've got you on 
the tip of their tongues

eat them 
how tasteless

then perhaps 
turn them off people 
how rude

so they sit 
in their comfortable jungles 
bursting with 
humanity

Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

Where the Lemkos were

in coltsfoot underbrush 
in bird's-eye scrub 
whelks 
in shell cupolas 
stand as churches

around their plinths 
a priest's choir 
bumbles as it bumbled 
its pilgrim song kyrieleison

sluggish time 
went that way turned back 
lord

snail 
the black slug 
ran cross its path

Translated by W. Martin