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.
My simple sisters,
my shepherdesses and seamstresses
with their blond braids
call to me from the sidewalks of Łodz
to make benches and straw roofs.
Bunched up on bundles
of the September amber
and the sway of dahlias,
they stretch their hands in supplication
to the dusky profile of my name:
who will play on bleeding panpipes
the sadness of captivated flocks
and the groans of hinges
when bad folk take the gold
of wheat and corn?
Cocky on your walk in town, hail
to me on your way.
You stop, and startled, you exclaim:
“This girl’s hair turned gray!”
A golden day mid-week —
and what else would maidens seek?
“Mushroom gathering we will go!”
Baskets rustle and pink cheeks glow.
They sing of joy and how bright the sun,
they gather together and do a count:
the magnate’s woods is divvied up.
There’s chatter and a meeting’s set
a plot of land for each girl’s basket,
a plot of forest-loneliness.
They join up, split and disperse.
A forest seemingly empty, still,
yet pulsing with life and truly filled!
Between hills and above valleys stars
glittered late into the night,
and I arrived at a cottage that,
like a shriveled mushroom,
stood in the middle of the marketplace,
its low threshold, a smooth stone,
and its walls, enchanted and white.
An eternal flame was lit inside,
and a gilded bird had its wings outspread,
and a flower grew in an earthen pot,
its crown, like green velvet, stretched wide.
But its soil had become parched,
so with a pitcher in hand
I watered the thirsty soil,
and I watered the thirsty stem,
and with the pitcher I sang
a song of love and eternity.
Work, girlies, work!
Work through day and night;
sew up blouses, little frocks,
then dress up to the nines!
Time for me to get going…
enough playing the fool:
sitting around and hoping
for a hot glance from you.