The Song Remains – דאָס ליד איז געבליבן

The Song Remains

People of the Warsaw Ghetto merged with a map of the Nazi occupation of Poland

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.

  • Alter Kacyzne (Alter-Sholem Katsizne)

    From leaf to leaflet, from little straws and clay
    I made myself a pallet, built myself a home.
    Now wicked breezes blow – the frosts are on their way,
    now it’s wretchedness and woe —
    driven from our nest.

    No home, no roof, at night nowhere to rest.
    In this chill and snow, who will warm us now?
    Who, oh, who will show us mercy now?
    No home, no path, black nights, days desolate.

    Our nest shattered and our wings bound
    with no home, no path, oh, no home!

    We roam and we wander
    over sea and land
    from one place to another
    on roads unknown.
    From all the dark corners, there blows a furious chill.
    From all the grim corners, a ferocious world torments.

    No home, no roof, at night nowhere to rest.
    In this chill and snow, who will warm us now?
    Who, oh, who will have mercy on us now?
    No home, no path, black nights, days desolate.

    Our little nest is shattered and our wings bound
    with no home, no nest, and no home.

    Translated by Miri Koral

    (more…)

  • Misha Troyanov

    1.

    How light are my steps.
    Tender winds waft on white wings,
    flutter in the blue air,
    binding, connecting the skies
    to the sunny pavement.

    (more…)

  • Shmuel Zaromb

    1

    On the red surface of the still waters
    of my melancholy,
    your submerged curly black head
    came swimming out.

    (more…)

  • Shmuel Zaromb (1896-1941) was born with the name Moyshe-Tsvi Fayntsayg in Brok, Podlaskie Voivodeship. He was educated in a traditional cheder (Jewish primary school) and later studied at the Ostrow Yeshiva. He went into hiding in the First World War to avoid being drafted, moved to Łomża (Lomzhe), and adopted his new name.

    He became well-versed in world literature, and started writing and publishing poetry.

    In 1924 he moved to Warsaw and became active in the Labor Zionist movement. He began writing more prolifically, and “…made his way, as if unnoticed, into the front ranks of the great pléiade of poets, story-tellers and essayists who in those years transformed the capital of Poland into one of the most important cultural-creative centres in the Jewish world.”

    At the beginning of the Second World War, Zaromb fled to Białystok along with many other Warsaw Jews, but was not permitted to stay, and ended up in Nieśwież.

    He was murdered by the Nazis along with the other four thousand Jews of Nieśwież on 30 October 1941.

    Sources:

  • Miryem (Miriam) Ulinover

    When to my little town I made my way
    for the very last stay
    you, my grandmama, showed me
    something quite assuredly…

    (more…)

  • Yakov Shudrikh

    The water in the well has become much clearer,
    the aged linden tree appears to be younger.
    I am restless, as solace keeps eluding me,
    not certain if I should be crying or singing.

    (more…)

  • Rokhl Kramf (Rachel Krampf)

    Today I witnessed
    an old fella’s weeping;
    in a fold of his cheek
    a tear got stuck,
    unable to reach
    his white beard.

    (more…)

  • Rokhl Kramf (1906-1988) was born in Krystynopol (Кристинопіль), later Chervonohrad (Червоноград), and now Sheptytskyi (Шептицький) Galicia, in modern Ukraine. She escaped to Israel in 1938, where she died in 1988.

    She published poetry in many Yiddish language journals in Warsaw in the interwar period, and later in Israel.

    Sources:

  • Yakov Shudrikh

    You never brought me white roses
    yet the ground is white-bestrewn with them.
    The entire earth is redolent of spring blossoms,
    early spring blossoming on snow.

    (more…)

  • Yakov Shudrikh

    Smoke, a white smoke, floats on the white hills,
    a whiteness that flies, scatters the snows.
    No one comes now to pluck white roses,
    so they fly into the air, whirl and twirl.

    (more…)