1919by Jacob Glatstein (Yankev Glatshteyn)translated by Kathryn Hellerstein and Benjamin Harshav Lately, there’s no trace leftOf Yankl, son of Yitskhok,But for a tiny round dotThat rolls crazily through the streetsWith hooked-on, clumsy limbs.The lord-above surroundedThe whole world with heaven-blueAnd there is no escape.Everywhere “Extras!” fall from aboveAnd squash my watery head.And someone’s long tongueHas stained my glasses for good with a smear of red,And…
