A letter arrived from the town of my birth
from one still sustained by the grace of her youth.
Enclosed between torment and fondness she pressed
a blade of grass from Ponar.

This grass and moribund cloud with its flicker
once kindled the alphabet, letter by letter.
And on the face of the letters, in murmuring ash,
the blade of grass from Ponar.

The grass is my doll's house, my snug little world
where children play fiddles in rows as they burn.
The maestro's a legend, they lift up their bows
for the blade of grass from Ponar.

I won't part with this stemlet that yields up my home.
The good earth I long for makes room for us both.
And I'll bring to the Lord my oblation at last:
the blade of grass from Ponar.