A.
I want to walk here once more
on the grass
and weep
to the sky
and to the wind
that howls in my face.
I want once again to measure the calamity
that befell this piece of ground
where once was my home.
The door is gone
and my mother—
she will not come home any more
covered with snow,
with a blue pitcher of milk in her hand–
and with the blue light of dawn in her eyes.
The windows are gone,
the sun will no longer wander
from wall to wall,
from corner to corner,
and conjure up for me
a green cat on a chair.
Only the willows at the river are here–
my tear falls into the waters
and for a while disturbs their calm.
B.
Yellow leaves fall, fall.
A tale wanders around on the roads,
a tale about people herded together on a field–
a spring rain was falling.
Three thousand Jews without water, without bread,
four long spring days.
Little children were crying under the stars–
they wanted to eat.
The surrounding forest did not grow darker
from the children’s crying.
Here they are, the green forests,
the forests of Gombin.
The deep blue sky
did not send fire down from the heights.
Cows are grazing in the fields,
a shepherd roasts potatoes in the smoke…
For what am I still searching in the village?
I encounter the pock-marked Stasha–
she lives, she strolls around with soldiers,
she is drunk and unwashed.
C.
Who calls me here in the meadow?
Who still knows my name?
A thorn bush burns in the field–
a child cries from the flames.
I take off my shoes and approach
the little son of my neighbor;
his little hands are charcoal,
but his eyes are open still.
I am leaving you, shtetl,
your roads are blue as before.
You will celebrate autumns and fairs,
and the river will flow on through the valley.
(Rajzel Zychlinsky)
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Based on Topics: Faces Poems, Name Poems, Cry Poems, Home Poems, Spring Poems, Water Poems, Snow Poems, Children Poems, Soldiers Poems, Cows PoemsBased on Keywords: strolls, unwashed, pock-marked, roasts