Standing in front of you, ruined house
after lone born child, in their seventies,  
to her old parents - my mom closed your door
on her way to a far sunnier land
I watch you while my knees shiver,
because the view is awful.  

Every path and road, wood, meadow or field
who paint - the road-map of beautiful Poland
is shouting my brother's blood -
that floods in proud stream rivers -
his ash climbs in smoke to the sky
and spreads out in the fat fertilized soil

Over thousand years of people
who lived here, embroiled and realized dreams,
just pieces of graves alone,
raising fingers of stone toward pitiless skies
while cows' droppings
manure wild apple trees

In a map made by a trembling hand
I looked for Tatzainska Street
Again and again, I returned to this street
renamed to some Black Madonna.  
It could clean them palms
they thought.

In the entrance of the exterminating camp,
Ivan's descendants bothered my car
like in whole tourist Europe,
offered cleaning, bathing...
How can you clean the dust on this glass
while it is most precious
fragments of my grandpa's body?

Your granddad with his plough,
followed the mule
while black cloud darkened daylight
Hot  Jids are burning...
He beats the animal goes on,
stretching the furrow.

I see her here, you miserable house
Passing the corner of Mizkevitza and Sinkievitza
the streets of literature
every morning from you to the gymnasium
to meet laughing girls
in sleepy roads.

What kind of happiness for a Jewish kid
with her heavy hair braided pulling up her head,
polish to declaim Pan Tadeush
and son of her people Julian Tuvim's songs,
moving repeatedly her little hand
on calligraphy

I reached you poor house
have no forgiveness- there is no forgiveness,
just acceptance of destruction
and the loss of a nation, who was here
and was torn to another life
from this place in which
time, has stopped.



תרגום של:  
http://stage.co.il/Stories/228699
Dedicated to E. M. Broner, NY