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געזאַנג פֿון אַ יידישן דיכטער אין 1943

Avrom Sutskever [Abraham Sutzkever] / אברהם סוצקעװער
Language: Yiddish


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Andr’oda taboris
(Anonymous)
די שבועה
(S. [Semën Akimovič] An-skij / Семён Акимович Ан-ский / ש. אנ-סקי)


Gezang fun a yidishn dikhter in 1943
[1943]

Liquidazione del ghetto di Vilnius, agosto 1943.
Liquidazione del ghetto di Vilnius, agosto 1943.
צי בין איך דער לעצטער פּאָעט אין אייראָפּע? [1]
צי זינג איך פֿאַר מתֿים, צי זינג איך פֿאַר קראָען?
איך טרינק זיך אין פֿײַער, אין זומפּן, אין ראָפּע,
געפֿאַנגען פֿון געלע, געלאַטעטע שעהען.

כ׳צעבײַס מײַנע שעהען מיט חײשע ציינער
געשטאַרקט פֿון מײַן מאַמעס אַ טרער. דורכן טראָפּן
דערזע איך ס׳מיליאָניקע האַרץ, פֿון די ביינער,
וואָס יאָגן צו מיר פֿון דער ערד אין גאַלאָפּן.

איך בין דאָס מיליאָניקע האַרץ! בין דער היטער
פֿון זייערע איבערגעלאָזטע ניגונים.
און גאָט וואָס דער מענטש האָט פֿאַרברענט זײַנע גיטער,
באַהאַלט זיך אין מיר, ווי די זון אין אַ ברונעם.

זײַ אָפֿן, מײַן האַרץ! און פֿאַרנעם ווי עס שפּראָצן
געהייליקטע שעהען אין צוקונפֿטס מחשבֿה.
פֿאַרגיכער, פֿאַראײַל זייער מאַכטיקן רצון,
און זײַ אין דײַן צער זייער אָנזאָגער, נבֿיא.

און זינג פֿון די זומפּן, און זינג פֿון דער נידער,
ביז וואַנען עס לעבט נאָך אַ טרער פֿון דער מאַמען!
דערהערן דײַן קול זאָלן ביינערנע ברידער,
די בראַנדיקע געטאָ, און ס׳פֿאָלק הינטער ימען

ווילנער געטאָ, יוני 1943
[1] Gezang fun a yidishn dikhter in 1943

Tsi bin ikh der letster poet in Eyrope?
Tsi zing ikh far meysim, tsi zing ikh far kroen?
Ikh trink zikh in fayer, in zumpn, in rope,
Gefangen fun gele, gelatete shoen.

Kh' tsebays mayne shoen mit khayishe tseyner
Geshtarkt fun mayn mames a trer. Durkhn tropn
Derze ikh s' milyonike harts, fun di beyner,
Vos yogn tsu mir fun der erd in galopn.

Ikh bin dos milyonike harts! Bin der hiter
Fun zeyere ibergeloste nigunim.
Un Got vos der mentsh hot farbrent zayne giter,
Bahalt zikh in mir, vi di zun in a brunem.

Zay ofn, mayn harts! Un farnem vi se shprotsn
Geheylikte shoen in tsukunfts makhshove.
Fargikher, farayil zeyer makhtikn rotsn,
Un zay in dayn tsar zeyer onzoger, novi.

Un zing fun di zumpn, un zing fun der nider,
Biz vanen es lebt nokh a trer fun der mamen!
Derhern dayn kol zoln beynerne brider,
Di brandike geto un s' folk yamen.

Vilner geto, yuni 1943.

Contributed by Riccardo Venturi - 2021/5/27 - 13:03




Language: Italian

Traduzione italiana / Italian translation / Traduction italienne / Italiankielinen käännös:
Riccardo Venturi, 27-5-2021 13:07

Liquidazione del ghetto di Gaza, maggio 2021.
Liquidazione del ghetto di Gaza, maggio 2021.
Canto di un poeta ebreo nel 1943

Sono forse l'ultimo poeta in Europa?
Sto cantando per cadaveri, cantando per corvi?
Sto annegando nel fuoco, in paludi, nel pus,
Prigioniero di ore con la toppa gialla.

Addento le mie ore con zanne d'una bestia,
Mi dà forza una lacrima di mia madre. Nel pianto
Racchiudo il milionesimo cuore degli scheletri
Che, dalla terra, mi galoppano incontro.

Sono io, quel milionesimo cuore! Faccio guardia
Alle canzoni che si son lasciati dietro.
E Dio, i cui beni l'uomo ha bruciato,
S'è nascosto con me e con il sole in un pozzo.

Àpriti, cuore mio! E sappi che le ore scarnificate
Rigermoglieranno nei pensieri di chi verrà dopo.
Affréttati, non rattenere la tua volontà possente,
E, nella tua pena, sii loro araldo e profeta.

E canta dalle paludi, canta dagli inferni,
Fin tanto che una lacrima di madre vivrà!
Così che la tua voce sia udita dai fratelli scheletri,
Il ghetto che brucia, il popolo oltremare.

Ghetto di Vilnius, giugno 1943.

2021/5/27 - 13:08




Language: English

Versione inglese / English version / Version anglaise / Englanninkielinen versio: A. Z. Foreman

"A.Z. Foreman is a translator and poet who has been obsessed with languages and literature since childhood" - Poems Found in Traslation
Song of a Jewish Poet in 1943

Am I the last poet left singing in Europe?
Am I making song now for corpses and crows?
I'm drowning in fire, in gunk, in the swamps,
Imprisoned by yellow patched hours as they close.

I bite at my hours with the teeth of a beast
By a mother's tear strengthened. Through teardrops I see
The heart of a million rise forth from the bones
Of long-buried brothers in gallop toward me.

And I am that heart of a million, one chosen
To guard the songs they left behind as they fell,
And God, whose estates Man has put to the torch,
Goes hidden in me as the sun in a well.

Be open, my heart! Know that your hallowed hours
Shall bloom in posterity's mind. Check their fear,
And lend all your strength unto their mighty will.
Become in your sorrow their herald, their seer.

Make song from down under, make song from the swamps
As long as a mother's tear lives, let the breeze
Bear your voice to the ear of your bone-buried brethren
To the ghetto in flames, to your folk overseas.

Written in the Vilnius Ghetto, June 1943

Contributed by Riccardo Venturi - 2021/5/28 - 10:29




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