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.
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
Children play with its bark
peeling off pieces like thin gray silk
if a bird flies there astray
he will sing his song from far away
Wet clothes hanging in my yard
swing themselves against blue sky
rusty clothesline squeaks a sound
exchanging greetings with the birch tree
Little children mischief makers
on your tip-toes come right here
let your old grandma sleep
I have a story about a bear…
Boo Boo with the bear story
that we’ve heard from our grandma dear
and of ducks that crow
and of hens that peel potatoes
about them do you know?
Shush, Listen up
with a red sun-
you thought a white sheep
go on go on don’t be a fool!
Really with a real red sun
shining bright up in the sky
suddenly we realize by the light
that someone or something has a taken a bite
Now the story is just beginning
and the sun is there no more
Cry woe! Cry woe!
What a disaster what a fright
instead of rosy sky above us
there is an ugly black piece of night!
Now cold wind begin to blow
grasses huddle down below
night is coming is lowering down
shadow have awakened
all that hates day and night
begins to creeps and creeps and down low
around a world that’s growing black and darker
weaving shadows into dungeon
now clever kids, begin to shout:
Eclipse! Eclipse!
The teacher has declared
that between heaven and earth
a cold moon crawls
with old wrinkles from long ago
the world becomes an eclipse
Good it is I will repeat
been this way from long ago
that when shadows dance upon the earth
all dark powers believe
the sun will shine no more…
But the sun in burst of joy
rises then with joyful laughter
and just to spite the darkness with her fire
she shines brighter and still higher
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
Her hair is unbraided
damp and combed
smooth tender her throat
waiting to be hugged
Gentle white hands
lovely, exposed
tender bare feet
ready to dance
When we young guys
go down to swim
we see her in her cabin
closing the blinds
When we take down our pants
over our feet
her sweet voice is heard
inspiring and cheerful
We undress to naked
learning to swim
her voice teases laughter
to die for!
We play a game of ducklings
walking on our knees
her applause is inspiring
our hearts to sigh
Someone does a somersault
she lets out a laugh
we hear her giggle
which makes us sweat
We end the competition
walking back from the lake
she’s waiting at the porch
to throw us a smile
When someone smiles to her
her heart awakens
she covers her face
with her little apron
When someone calls from the garden
she closes a door
and just disappears
we see her no more
The next day at evening
we are at the lake
she runs by us madly
more pretty, more pale
She hides in a corner
behind a closed window
and whistles so wildly
it gives us a fever
That’s how she lives
quietly teasing
she makes us crazy
without wanting to play
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
In short
A thirst in Rome has aroused the hunters
and Jesus is their protector.
Do you hear? Bend forward your ear.
A thirst in Rome has provoked the hunters
and right away with weapons,
tumult and chase they cry blood!
The bells are ringing
Arousing:
Like frighteners
And chase the dreams behind all doors
and ferocious screaming;
Blood!
For the hunters
For grass
For Almighty Cesar
We must slake our thirst
Blood!
And who will protect
and who will defend
the holiday dreaming and streaming of Nile.
So quiet it is
and locked silent the lips
hoorah for blood!
Flesh of a calf is weighed by the pound
there’s a price for the wool of a sheep
but human flesh is weighed by the ton
and human hair – dirt cheap
See how fine the peonies bloom
how beautifully the chrysanthemums dream
fascist scum pray and rob
give them flowers with a whip – true?
Are we in night or is it day now?
A black wind rises
the louvres of my comfort
and brings a child
An Abyssinian Child:
The child cries and glows and glows
“I’ve not been secretly given away
haven’t touched the shadow of his fence
why do I smell of iodine?
Why do I smell of death?
Is it night now? Or is it morning?
Who has the secret key?
I just know that blood I see on my fingers
and my eyes are blazing green
In my soul the Abyssinian child
cries and black wind carries more and more
Well, I did not need to think another minute
and in the darkness of my black night
my fingers wrote compulsively ten times
without any sense;
Blood!
And – strangle Mussolini…
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
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Oh, poor foolish singer
you are not yet good at your work
Does your song echo there?
you crawl only to wealthy yards
A
Like fish with mother of pearl
clouds swim in the cool sky
and from their feathers flow
drip drops clouded with the sun
into the dark mouth of earth
A bright lit swallow circles quietly up and up
hooked on a circling whirlwind
Every tree is loaded with green earth
with blue joy and secrets from the West.
Spring-life! Look, look:
You are being welcomed by White Russian towns
with pails empty to their bottom
Unemployment greets you keeping track
with froth on mouth where hungry children
with blistered skin and dark worms’ nest
stick into the walls of the closets
B
A loud radio delivers to the open palms of leaves
through air and streets throughout the world
with grey sacks behind eyes with fevered fingers
to choke someone’s neck…
Young folks drink every evening on this street, the wine
from Barcelona and sing Yiddish folk songs in Minsk
And the last bit of joy jumps out of
naked skin and runs barefoot on steps
to peacock ends of flying stars, bursting suddenly
filled with provocation
with bloody terror
and with the sparkle of a leper’s eye.
Zdziecioł (Zhetl / Dyatlovo) 1937
(more…)The noisemaker knocks
we can hardly hear
past the din
people what we dream
My dress is loose
and moves that way and this
And becomes a
wild crimson mess