What Our Dead Do
Jan came this morning
—I dreamt of my father
he says
he was riding in an oak coffin
I walked next to the hearse
and father turned to me:
you dressed me nicely
and the funeral is very beautiful
at this time of year so many flowers
it must have cost a lot
don’t worry about it father
—I say—let people see
we loved you
that we spared nothing
six men in black livery
walk nicely at our sides
father thought for a while
and said—the key to the desk
is in the silver inkwell
there is still some money
in the second drawer on the left
with this money—I say—
we will buy you a gravestone
a large one of black marble
it isn’t necessary—says father—
better give it to the poor
six men in black livery
walk nicely at our sides
they carry burning lanterns
again he seemed to be thinking
—take care of the flowers in the garden
cover them for the winter
I don’t want them to be wasted
you are the oldest—he says—
from a little felt bag behind the painting
take out the cuff links with real pearls
let them bring you luck
my mother gave them to me
when I finished high school
then he didn’t say anything
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poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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