"A Poor Christian Looks at the Ghetto"

I have been, noncommittaly, reading some work by Milosz, but doing so only in English. Today I read a piece of his in Polish, and simultaneously the translation into English. I found the translation to be pretty inadequate so I re-translated it, obviously with much help from the skeleton of the original translation. Here it is:

Bees build a casing over a red liver
Ants build a casing over a black bone
The tearing begins, the stomping of linen
The breaking of glass begins, of tress, iron, nickel, silver and foam
Gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, balls and crystals.
Poof! The phosphorous fire from yellow walls
Consumes human and animal hairs.

Bees build a casing over the honeycomb lung
Ants build a casing over the white bone
Torn is the paper, rubber, canvass, skin and flax
Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, hair, snakeskin, wire
In flames, the ceiling falls, then the wall and fiery heat engulfs the foundation.
All that is left is, sandy and trampled down, with one leafless tree,
The earth.

Slowly, boring a tunnel, moves the guardian mole
With a small red lantern strapped to his forehead
He touches the buried bodies, counts, and digs on
Distinguishing human ashes by their luminous vapor,
Each one's remnants a different hue of the spectrum.
Bees build a casing over a red trace,
Ants build a casing over the place left behind by my body.

I fear; so deeply do I fear the guardian mole
His swollen eyelids like a Patriarch
Who frequently sat among the glimmer of candles
Reading the great book of the species

What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament
Waiting for two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
My broken body will deliver me to his sight
And he will count me among the helpers of death:
The uncircumcised.