Die schlesischen Weber (Heinrich Heine 1844)
Translated by: Jane Howard
No tears are blurring their mournful eyes,
They sit at the loom with snarls and cries:
“Germany, weaving your shroud and hearse,
We weave into it the threefold curse We weave, we weave!
One curse for the godling to whom we prayed,
Pierced through with cold winter and hunger’s blade:
In vain we had hoped, in vain we had yearned,
In return he has mocked us, and fooled us, and gurned:
We weave, we weave!
One curse for the king, the rich man’s king,
Who never once pitied our suffering,
Who squeezed the last penny from our wretched lot,
And left us like dogs to be kicked out and shot:
We weave, we weave!
One curse for the Fatherland’s traitor name
Where nothing can flourish but insult and shame,
Where flowers are crushed before their prime,
Where maggots fatten in rot and slime:
We weave, we weave!
The shuttle flies, and the loom groans loud,
By day and by night we are weaving your shroud,
Old Germany, weaving your fateful hearse,
We weave into it the threefold curse:
We weave, and weave!