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.
