The Song Remains
דאָס ליד איז געבליבן
Welcome to our collection of Yiddish poems with English translations from Nazi German occupied Poland. We’ll be publishing one new poem per week into 2027, so be sure to subscribe to get free weekly updates.
Moyshe Shimel (Maurycy Szymel)
Summer. Nights are round as moons.
I love the windswept grasses and the face
of a woman
walking on silver paths in the forest depths.
It’s blue
and profound loneliness
streams from underfoot –
the night is full of all that rustles and blooms.
And how good it is now like this
just as before writing a poem
about windows open to the wind, to night,
and about white hands on eyes that are closed.
/MK
(more…)On the wall, left of my bed
my daughter’s portrait hangs
frequently during the night I think of her
and see her lovely face
and hear her talk with me…
“Daddy dear, it’s been so long
since we have been together
this war for sure cannot last long
I promise I will come to you
I hear spring knocking at your door”
I see her smiling sweetly speaking love above my bed
My daughter’s Shifreleh’s Portrait
Kraków, 2 December 1939
(more…)The birch tree in the corner of my yard
trembles with every leaf ashamed
every branch longs for sun and dew
in the shade of big locked doors
Little children mischief makers
on your tip-toes come right here
let your old grandma sleep
I have a story about a bear…
By the clear waters
stands a crooked cottage
there in that little place
is lovely Zlatke’s home
Her cheeks – little roses
her smile is dimpled
her eyes so alive
tender and loving
Borekh Olitsky (Baruch Olitsky)
Not prophets, apostles
not extinguished suns
not unfortunate mountains and valleys
have come to warn, to tell –
quiet, simple folk representations
brothers with hammers, sheers, awls
have printed the warning signs
and posted them on streets and corners
brothers probably stand now behind bars
like stunned pale statues
and may be mistaken
their bones are already overgrown with grass
let’s not go there
Tonight, in a dream
there came to me
a young lover
who tenderly look me by the hand
A fiddle is playing in a country green
Where I am not and will never be
A sunny house is blossoming in a white land
Where I am not and will never be
Every day, every plain day
my blood shivers in my body
every day, every ordinary day
my blood responds to a call
A wave inside echoes in my blood
like a bell – in the night – so bright
the world hangs in troubled pain of the world
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .