Two Tons of Hair

Yes, every age is represented here:
Soft silky children's hair, like thistledown,
A matron's plait as heavy as her hips,
Grey locks — at least old Eva had some time
To live, to love, to make her own mistakes.
She even had begun to look ahead,
Enjoyed the thought of finding peace in death,
But not this sort, one that was dignified,
A gentle sleep, reposing in her bed,
From which she'd wake no more, she'd dreamed of that.
Her children round to say their last goodbyes.
Her daughter to inherit her fox fur,
Her rings, the locket and the photographs.
Her son, just married, would need furniture.
The bed and sideboard, dining table, chairs...
The choice was taken from her with her clothes.
Nothing to hold and nothing to bequeath.
What dignity was left? In her last weeks
She faded to a dried-out Dürer witch,
With flapping dugs,where once she'd suckled babes.

I grew on Anna's head. Dark shiny coils, 
Rolled tightly back and pinned beneath her hat. 
I was her pride and joy. She ceased to hope
The day they hacked me off. "It will grow back!"
Poor dying Eva said. But she was wrong
Time had run out as well for her and me.
The hair that lies here never had a chance
To grow and flourish on a dead girl's skull. 
Anna is ash, her friends, buried or burned.

Next to me lies another woman's hair,
A horsetail hank. Her coarse peroxide blonde 
Did not deceive the officers who searched.
A hasty dyeing led to hasty death.