Black milk of daybreak, we drink it every morning;
we drink it every midday; we drink it every night;
we drink it and drink it.
We are digging a grave like a hole in the sky;
there’s sufficient room to lie there.
The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes
in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair, Margarete.”
He writes poems by the stars, whistles hounds to stand by,
whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie.
He commands us to strike up lively tunes for the dance!
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you every morning;
we drink you every midday; we drink you every night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes,
he writes when the night falls, “Your golden hair, Margarete.
Your ashen hair, Shulamith.”
We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high.
His screams, “You dig there!” and “Hey, you, dance and sing!”
He grabs his black nightstick; his eyes are pallid blue;
he cries, “Hey, you, dig more deeply! You others, keep on dancing!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you every morning;
we drink you every midday, we drink you every night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair, Margarete.
Your ashen hair, Shulamith.” He toys with our lives.
He screams, “Play for me! Death’s a master of Germany!”
His screams, “Stroke dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise
to a grave in the clouds; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you every midnight;
we drink you at noon; Death’s the master of Germany!
We drink you come evening; we drink you and drink you.
He’s a master of Deutschland, with eyes pale deathly blue,
with dull bullets of lead our pallid master murders you!
He writes when the night falls, “Your golden hair, Margarete.”
He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies.
He plays with his serpents; he’s a master of Germany.
Your golden hair, Margarete.
Your ashen hair, Shulamith.
