Jan came this morning br —I dreamt of my father br he says br br he was riding in an oak coffin br I walked next to the hearse br and father turned to me: br br you dressed me nicely br and the funeral is very beautiful br at this time of year so many flowers br it must have cost a lot br br don’t worry about it father br —I say—let people see br we loved you br that we spared nothing br br six men in black livery br walk nicely at our sides br br father thought for a while br and said—the key to the desk br is in the silver inkwell br there is still some money br in the second drawer on the left br br with this money—I say— br we will buy you a gravestone br a large one of black marble br br it isn’t necessary—says father— br better give it to the poor br br six men in black livery br walk nicely at our sides br they carry burning lanterns br br again he seemed to be thinking br —take care of the flowers in the garden br cover them for the winter br I don’t want them to be wasted br br you are the oldest—he says— br from a little felt bag behind the painting br take out the cuff links with real pearls br let them bring you luck br my mother gave them to me br when I finished high school br then he didn’t say anything br he must have entered a deeper sleep br br this is how our dead br look after us br they warn us through dreams br bring back lost money br hunt for jobs br whisper the numbers of lottery tickets br or when they can’t do this br knock with their fingers on the windows br br and out of gratitude br we imagine immortality for them br snug as the burrow of a mousebr br Zbigniew Herbertbr br