When my flesh is consumed, my blood dried, my bones whittled down--then I will become fine literature: perfumed as the withered grasses; clear as the clarinet’s cry; wonderful with the wonders of a shadow who speaks from the earth itself.
Perhaps then people, just a few, will feel my life--as if tasting a forest razed in its youth.
Az mayn fleysh vet zayn fartsert, mayn blut oysgetriknt, mayne beyner opgeshlayft,--demolt vel ikh tsu fayner literatur vern: duftik vi a farvyanet grezl; klor vi dos kol fun a klarnet; vunderlekh mit dem vunder fun a shotn vos redt fun der erd aroys.
Demolt veln efsher a teyl menthsn mayn lebn derfiln--vi der tam fun a vald vos hot yung opgebrent.
By Moyshe Nadir
Translated by Corbin Allardice
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