Poem 11-- Mother (Untitled)
Mother, mother, poor old mother,
Do you know that your son,
Your only son,
Is long since dead?
And when you touch him
And when you hold him
And when, with a contented smile, you kiss him
You touch, you hold, you kiss
A dead boy--long since dead.
And when you look into his eyes
Are you looking into the face
Of death?
Or--
Because he still walks about
With soft shaking steps,
And he mutters, often,
Some depressive cant,
And, sometimes, he smiles
Such a strange smile--
Do you think that he’s alive?
And, with trembling hands,
Do you wrap his neck
In a warm, warm cloth.
And do you blind your eyes,
Taking your old, old life
And knitting it into socks
Of pure wool
For you dear son?
Mame, mame, alte umgliklekhe mame,
Veystu, az dayn zun,
Dayn benyokhed,
Iz geshtorbn shoyn fun lang?
Un ven du gletst im,
Un ven du haldz im,
Un mit a gliklekh shmeykhl kusht im,
Gletstu, haldzstu, kushtu
A shoyn lang gehtorbenem,
Un di oygn kukstu im arayn--
Kukst in ponim du--
Dem toyt?
Oder--
Vayl er geyt nokh alts arum zikh
Mit shtil vaklendike trit,
Un er sheptshet oftmol
Epes umetike verter,
Un amol tut er a shmeykhl,
Aza modnem shmeykhl--
Meynstu az er lebt?
Un mit tsiterdike hent
Bindstu im dem haldz arum
Mit a varem-varem tikhl.
Un du blendst di oygn zikh
Un dayn altn-altn lebn
Shtrikstu in di zokn ayn--
Zokn emes volene
Far dayn libn zun?------
Poem 12 - Adieu! (Untitled)
Roads on which I onetime wandered,
Faces on which my eye has rested
Souls in which my soul’s been swallowed--*
I give you my regards!
And old and tired, wandering, am I,
A shadow wandering through life,
Without the joy of life, without the calm of death,
The joy of life is not my fate--
So, I want the calm of death
Thus, I want the calm of death--
I give you my regards!
Vegn, af velkhe ikh hob ven gevandlt,
Gezikhter, af velkhe mayn oyg hot gerut,
Neshomes, vos hobn amol mikh gefangen--
Zayt mir gegrist!
An alter, a mider gey ikh arum,
A shotn in lebn shlep ikh zikh um,
On freydn fun lebn, on ru fun’m toyt--
Vil ikh di ru fun’m toyt
Vil ikh di ru fun’m toyt--
Zay mir gegrist!
Poem 13 - Speak, Be Silent (Untitled)
Don’t speak, don’t speak.
I am afraid of words.
Under all of your kind words
My soul trembles
My soul twitches.
Don’t stop!
In your silence, I hear that wounded drone**
Which flows in black tides
To dim--and douse the words
Glowing in my soul.***
Console me.
With you caressing words
You inflame my soul to ash.
As with tongs hot from the foundry,
I am embraced
By quiet, tender
Sounds.
Reyd nit, reyd nit.
Verter shrekn mikh.
Unter yedn tryst vort daynem
Tsitert mayn neshome,
Tsaplt zikh.
Nit shvayg!
Ikh her in dayn shvaygn di paynen
Vos tsien in shtromen zikh shvartse
Un leshn--farleshn di verter,
Vos glien in hartsn.
Treyst mikh.
Mit dayne gletndike verter
Brenst du di neshome mir oys.
Glaykh tseglite tsvangen
Nemen mikh arum
Shtile, milde
klangen.
By Moyshe Varshe
Translated by Corbin Allardice
*- “Neshomes vos hobn mikh amol gefangen,” literally, “Souls which once captured me.”
**- Lit. “In silence, I hear the sorrows (paynen).”
***- Lit. “glowing in my heart.”
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