Zofia Górska Romanowiczowa

Przy Pracy (At Work) Ink by Maria Hiszpańska Neumann

The Circle

The circle tightened around,
Of bear paws and the lion's claws. 
Here we are in pain
Under the watchful guard of walls.

The terrible loop is tightening, 
The dark flood takes over us. 
There is no name. 
For our suffering.

Capturing birds in a snare,
Deer falling into traps,
It  is our scary dance,
Here is our wildest fear.

Today, when the snow is fusible,
It plays joyfully on the gutter,
We are alive - still alive -
Like plants and animals.

Animals: for the day is near - 
It is full of suffering.
Hear - sharp bird squeals, 
And the rough roar of deer.

Plants: when at twilight
In the windowpane, 
The dawn arrives,
In its glow, wet warm-up
Our cellar guise.

***

God, you guide all the birds,
When they come from far rest.
Let me go home the same way 
As they come back to their nests.

Here are the flowers and grasses awakening,
Meadows are swimming in luscious green,
Behold, the sky blooms above my head 
With clouds full of foam and sheen.

And I stand as dry as a tree, 
That is torn to death by frost. 
To me, is the world lost?
Is dead forever the world for me?

Holy God, hear my request! 
Holy God, the guide of all birds! 
I am awake during the day and restless at night,
I am waiting for your sign with prolonged severe fright.

Finally, open wide doors,
Of the cage - the surrounding us life, 
And show the way home,
Through the fields and the meadow path. 

Pińczów, prison, 1941.   Up



Time

Time is like a wounded animal; in the morning, 
It drags with difficulty its sick body and crawls;
Yet the road ahead is distant and long, 
A whole day ends sometime at dusk,
With a roll call.

The animal crawls slowly; its faint, weak paws 
Are scratching the sand of the road; 
In its helpless eyes are shots of blood. 
It looks ahead into the vastness of the guarded 
By minute's path.

Like mountains with threatening boulders, 
Hours climb with a dangerous and twisted trail. 
In the painful folds of cracked skin, while trying 
To shake them to no avail, in the scorching heat,
Thousands of flies forage.

Somewhere far away looms an evening like an oasis; 
Come over there, lie down there, befuddled with sleep. 
Evening, dream, how heavenly these words sound. 
The animal crawls slowly and from his paws, 
Runs blood.

Pińczów prison, 1941.   Up

At Night When Raining

At night, when the rain hits the roof like a drummer, 
With the wind, his sad snares softer than louder, 
I feel my heart strangely and unbearably pounding, 
And over me, the immensity of the walls is astounding.

I don't dare to long for the warm interiors of homes, 
Where the light of the lamps on the faces becomes gold.
I envy beggars lying under the fence,
To anyone useless to nobody's heart close. 

For them, there are roads and all paths,
For them, the rustle of trees  - and the sky above is free, 
And the meadows and gardens and flowers by the side, 
for them, the wind blows, and their shabby rugs dry.

I am lying here in a cell similar to a dungeon and  grave, 
All of my thoughts and hopes are stripped away, 
I am listening to the voices of the night and weeping wind, 
like a drummer, the sound of the rain is echoing.

Pińczów, prison, August 1941.   Up


Beyond The Merciless Gate

Beyond the merciless gate,
Beyond the stone wall, indeed, 
Life flows with its current as it used to be, 
It is autumn and clouds of lead and henna 
Flow like boats packed to the brims.

I don't know when it will come, 
An overpowering moment 
Like an angel who will break the gate. 
Will it be the world's welcome to me? 
Will heaven towards me mercifully lean?

I don't know; I've been waiting so long, 
The day goes by, then night. 
I do not pray with words, 
In me, sighs fall and rise, 
As if I wanted to reach God 
Is it in vain? I do not know.

It is autumn. I think about it, 
Like hungry women about bread. 
There is some world over there, 
 Sunk in a silent sky, I am in doubt sometimes.
Tomorrow will be the same again.
The night goes by, then the day,
Beyond the merciless gate.

Pińczów prison, 1941.   Up

Get The Dress Ready For Me

Prepare dresses for me,
I'll be back soon.
I'm gone, but I'll return, 
Tomorrow or maybe today.
Let me take off and only put it on 
What your gracious hands give me
On your doorsteps at the break of dawn. 

Let me shake off everything. 
And throw it away as far as possible, 
What is heavy beyond my strength,
What is dirty, and what is bitter? 
And you will give me a dress 
That has a lentils smell and is like cristal water, 
My body will be washed by its waves.

The dress will be blue, 
Like flowers over a stream, 
It will surround me 
Like a cloud, light and airy. 
I'll come back to you soon,
My love, I am sure you will prepare it.

Ravensbrück, 1942.    Up

Quarantine

Here the sky is foreign - how can I pray?
How can I move Him? How can I cry to God? 
My hands are pierced, and my legs
They took my body; they stripped me of my soul.

Here is a foreign and cold sky 
Its hands to my temples shall not bow.
How hard to forget, How hard to say goodbye, 
To those purple, blue and lilac clouds.

How difficult it is to forget, 
And how tough to agree with the sky 
That each day ascends and swells 
With hopes that they go down cold and rise,
And where it would be so terrible to die.

Ravensbrück, April 1942.    Up



Three poems for Tommy

I
Close your eyes, my baby. 
It's cold in a prison cell now.
Your hands are hidden under the blanket, so don't cry. 
Since gentle babies sleep in warm homes, 
All the angels are also asleep on the clouds,

I have sung to you all the songs I know, 
And the lullabies I remember for so long, 
And I have already finished my fairy tale 
in which you, Daddy and I are together again.

You still do not want to fall asleep, and your eyes,
In a warm pink face, burn like sapphire.
You seem to know something and remember something, my son.
Don't be afraid; no one will take you from my arms.

II

Your pink hands, like climbing flowers, 
have entwined my heart, my distant child.
I cuddle your warm body every night 
And cover your eyelids with my lips 
To make sure you fall asleep.

You are so small, and you hurt so much.
You are so lovely that I turn pale from the agony,
When I think how, in a smile, you slowly part 
your sweetest lips, sincere and unconscious.

They tell me that you have already said 
The word 'mama' and since then, I hear, 
Day and night, with my maternal heart, 
My terrified heart, these two consonants
Calling vainly in the hush.

Without you, so empty are my arms, 
And I have no strength;
And I missed you so much,  
Maybe you're crying right now? 
I wake up terrified; my dearest son,
And hear you calling me from a distance.

And behind me, the cruellest have closed gates, 
And my heart beats vainly like a hammer against them. 
Those who have already died return to their children, 
and I cannot return to you, although I am still alive.

III

I try in vain to guess; my orphan son,
Where do this glow and smile come from in your mouth, 
And if 'She' is with you that night,
And waiting for you to fall asleep and calm down?

I follow your glances and try to translate 
Your sweetest chatter, baby words. 
Little one, what if all this means 
That her caring hands caress your face?

Please tell me, however timidly, 
With such reverence with which I take 
You are in my arms, and I don't know if I feel 
Your body under my fingers or 'Hers,' 
When she pulls away from my hands, scared?

Pińczów prison, 1941-1942.     Up 



There Is In Me

There is in me the wildness of animals trapped in snares, 
Their madness, panic, struggle and spasms of fear. 
How it is, I know, with birds when their blind wings 
Beat hopelessly against a soulless wall.

And I know what have deers in their eyes  
When with a terrible ghost, death among the pines 
Blocks their way, and sometimes I want to scream while 
I hear a shrill voice of a hare mutilated by a hunting pack.

My human heart knows little more, 
What it suffers and is afraid of,
How little it differs from the deers and hares 
Of my frightened brothers and poor sisters.

Pińczów prison, 1941.     Up 

I Regret The Most

What I regret the most is not those youthful years, 
Not the mother, nor you, not the world, not the spring,
But the song that resounds impatiently in me, 
Waiting to rise like a torch.

And the worst thing will be for me 
To die with the thought that the pain 
That torments my body to death 
Will kill the secret word with me 
Before it blooms like a flame on my lips.

Pińczów prison, February 1941. 

****
I feel so sorry for you that the little rosebud
Was plucked, squeezed like a tiny fist, 
Before the spring sun in your little twigs 
Awoke overflowing juice, a wave of life.

And you won't bloom anymore. 
And you won't know what the flowering time
It means good weather and full of happiness. 
Your body numbs, so asleep is your soul. 
It didn't see that life could be unlike.

That immensity of the sky is above you,
And one day, it may use up so much happiness. 
Little rosebud, It's time to bloom,  
But what about us, me and you?

Pińczów prison, 1942.   Up
I Feel Sorry For My Body.
I feel sorry for my body, 
Which, in its misery,
Withers and dries up 
Like a weed growing by the fence.
I feel sorry for my body, 
And I'm so afraid 
That it may suddenly prevent 
Me from going back home. 
That my body may not be able
To bear, to do, to cope, 
May not be able to reach 
Even to the next dawn.


And then it will mercilessly 
Be trampled in the crowd, 
Like a soldier in the field,
Wounded lying down.


I know no one will support me.
Why an alien, unknown, neighbouring existence 
Would mean to anybody?
Does someone's eyes want to see someone again?
And someone's hands want to put their arm around someone?


And someone's words be needed at all?
And whose heart is the closest in the world?
I am afraid of my body that it will break 
And push me to the ground under its weight.


Ravensbrück, 1942    Up
For Krysia


I will be in a blue dress like the blue sky
And you in a dress like the pink sky,
The low sun will illuminate our faces 
And rest like a hand on our heads.
We will stop in the garden 
Where swordfish burn 
And stern ashes rustle -
I am in a blue dress, and you 
In a pink dress like the sky.


Through my tears, I can see it: 
Silence flows over; spruces hold 
Their breath at the gate, 
Windows are lit in a lovely house. 
When the sun sets, a rainbow will break, 
Seven-coloured, juicy and quiet. 
The evening will lie like fruit on the grass, 
The breeze's lips touch our dresses 
Blue for me and pink for you.


I can see it through my tears - 
Close your eyes, and let a quiet house appear 
In front of you, shining with windows, 
Hidden in the green of the trees 
As if in the palm of your hand. 
Perhaps you will also see 
The sun's sleepy head bowed this evening, 
And on the path, you will see both of us 
In muslin dresses, me in blue and you in pink.
Ravensbrück, 1942    Up