Ludzie

The Shop

So Leah returned from the sweatshop,
So Leah rode homeward, rode home.
The pines broke into a prayerful sway,
And her heart uttered a bitter moan.

The days were on the cusp of spring
With pure mornings, frozen dew.
How the girl yearned, longed without end
For forest and field, the sky’s blue. 

Then Leah traveled again to the shop,
To sew clothes—to sew up the days.
The subway still pounded inside her head,
While her longing beat out its own way.

So Leah went into the dimly lit shop,
Cheeks stained, and lips painted, red.
Her own youthful blush she had already stitched
Into clothing for strangers.
(Lider Mayne, p. 245) 
 

The Girl Who Operates the Elevator

Day never penetrates this place.
An eternal dusk reigns, 
Whether the door is open or the door is closed.
The route goes up and down,
A pail pulled from a well...
Full of people who trickle away like water.
At different floors, they come, they go. 

The girl who operates the machine...
I cannot forget the silent misery
Of her bony limbs. 
When I roam the noisy streets,
She follows me. And the elevator’s darkness
Has become part of her.

I see her colorless face, her sunken cheeks...
Like wax, daubed red with cheap powder.
Her silenced mouth still cries to me. 

Cries out of shadowed days in the elevator’s nook.
Her delicate hands, pale fingers with painted nails,
Extend like withered branches on a tree... 

Her gloomy eyes reflect the light of a little bulb
That burns all day over her head
Like a Yahrzeit candle.
(Azoy vi ikh bin, p. 14)

Translated by Merle Bachman