Anna Swir:

I hate father's paintings.
All our misery is in them,
tears of my mother.
They suck our blood
like vampires, demand
a sacrifice of life, like gods.

I love father's paintings.
They are my brothers and sisters, my only
comrades, in the wokrshop
cut off like the struggle of a madman.

When nobody is home
I pass my ink-stained finger
through the flame
of the candle.
I want to become a saint,
I want to measure up to father's paintings.

I have no idea
that I hate, that I love,
that I want to measure up.