A keresés eredménye

The Leaden Plates of Romm's Printing Works

Like fingers reaching out between the bars
To seize the bright air of freedom
We moved through the night to steal
The leaden plates of Romm’s Printing Works
Dreamers who had to become soldiers
We converted spirit of lead into bullets.
 
As once again we lifted the seal
To enter into the shelter of the ancient cave,
Armored with shadow, lit by lamps,
We spilled the letters – line after line –
Just as our forefathers in the Temple
Poured the oil into the festive menorahs.
 
By the casting of bullets the lead
Illumined thoughts – letter after letter melted.
One molten line from Babylon, another
From Poland, flowed into the same mold.
Jewish bravery once hidden in words
Must now strike back with shot!
 
Whoever saw this ammunition strapped round
The brave Jewish boys in the ghetto,
Saw Jerusalem struggling for life,
The fall of those granite walls.
Whoever understood the fiery words
Recognized their voices in his heart.
 

A Wagon of Shoes

The wheels they drag and drag on,
What do they bring, and whose?
They bring along a wagon
Filled with throbbing shoes.
 
The wagon like a khupa
In evening glow, enchants:
The shoes piled up and heaped up,
Like people in a dance.
 
A holiday, a wedding?
As dazzling as a ball!
The shoes — familiar, spreading,
I recognize them all.
 
The heels tap with no malice:
Where do they pull us in?
From ancient Vilna alleys,
They drive us to Berlin.
 
I must not ask you whose,
My heart, it skips a beat:
Tell me the truth, oh, shoes,
Where disappeared the feet?
 
The feet of pumps so shoddy,
With buttondrops like dew —
Where is the little body?
Where is the woman too?
 
All children's shoes — but where
Are all the children's feet?
Why does the bride not wear
Her shoes so bright and neat?
 
'Mid clogs and children's sandals,
My Mama's shoes I see!
On Sabbath, like the candles,
She'd put them on in glee.
 
The heels tap with no malice:
Where do they pull us in?
From ancient Vilna alleys,
They drive us to Berlin.