1919
by Jacob Glatstein (Yankev Glatshteyn)
translated by Kathryn Hellerstein and Benjamin Harshav

Lately, there’s no trace left
Of Yankl, son of Yitskhok,
But for a tiny round dot
That rolls crazily through the streets
With hooked-on, clumsy limbs.
The lord-above surrounded
The whole world with heaven-blue
And there is no escape.
Everywhere “Extras!” fall from above
And squash my watery head.
And someone’s long tongue
Has stained my glasses for good with a smear of red,
And red, red, red.
You see:
One of these days something will explode in my head,
Ignite there will be a dull crash
And leave behind a heap of dirty ashes
And I,
The tiny dot,
Will spin in either for eternities,
Wrapped in red veils.

–

Translation source: Jewish American Literature, A Norton Anthology

Submitted by Sarah Ponichtera, Center for Jewish History.