Wybitna poetka pisząca w języku żydowskim urodzona w
So Leah returned from the sweatshop,
Leah rode homeward, rode home.
The pines broke into a prayerful
And her heart uttered a bitter moan.
The days were on the cusp of spring
pure mornings, frozen dew.
How the girl yearned, longed without
For forest and field, the sky’s blue.
Then Leah traveled again to the shop,
sew clothes—to sew up the days.
The subway still pounded inside
While her longing beat out its own way.
So Leah went into the dimly lit shop,
Cheeks stained, and lips painted, red.
youthful blush she had already stitched
Into clothing for
(Lider Mayne, p. 245)
The Girl Who Operates the Elevator
Day never penetrates this place.
eternal dusk reigns,
Whether the door is open or the door
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
The girl who operates the machine...
cannot forget the silent misery
Of her bony limbs.
When I roam the noisy streets,
She follows me. And the elevator’s darkness
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
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