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(זינג מײַן פֿידעלע (בערלין 1990

Mishke Alpert [Michael Alpert] / מישקע אַלפערט
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Versione inglese
ZING, MAYN FIDELE (BERLIN 1990)SING, MY FIDDLE (BERLIN 1990)
  
Kh'ob geshpilt do in Daytshland shoyn eftere mol,I've played here in Germany many's the time,
Hamavdil, hamavdil beyn koydesh lekhol,He who divides the sacred from the worldly,
Nor ikh shver bay mayn muze, to hert vos ikh zing,But I swear by my muse, mark well what I sing,
Az keyn mol iz mir geven laykht do, un gring.That not once has it been easy to be here.
Ikh ze aykh bay nakht in farreykherte knaypyesI see you at night in smoky hangouts,
Reydndik yungitshke reyd funem haynt,Talking youthful talk of today
Kh'halt shtark fun mayn yikhes, Nor kh'bin aykh mekane,I'm proud of my heritage, yet I envy you,
Ir, hayntike kinder fun nekhtikn faynt.today's children of yesterday's enemy,
Vayl aykh iz di tsukunft, Eyn land un eyn shprakhBecause yours is the future, one land and one language,
Bes mir haltn shtumerhayt do...while we are left here, speechless...
  
... Dem nekhtns a viderkol tomid faran,... Yesterday's echo forever at hand,
Zikhroyne levrokhe: bay itlekhn shpan,Of blessed memory at every turn.
Nor nokh alts, oy, farbindn zikh, undzere tsvey felker,Yet something still draws together, our two peoples;
A farbotene libe, fun reshoim geshtert,A forbidden love, disrupted by evildoers,
Tsi libe, tsi sine, zi hersht vi bashert,Be it love or hate, it is as if fated,
Farsholtn fun mentsh un fun boyre.Cursed by human beings and the Creator.
  
To zing, mayn fidele, shpil, mayn fideleSo sing, my fiddle, Play, my fiddle,
Vi frier hot nit geshilt keynerLike no one who has played before.
Un shpil mir tsu a sheyn goles-lidlAnd play me a sweet Diaspora song,
Mit a benkshaft a reyner.With a longing that's pure.
  
Kh'ob shtendik in zinen di eygene yikhes,My own heritage is ever on my mind
Afile baym valgern in loytern atsind,Even as I traverse the bright present,
Vayl ven nisht di milkhomes, pogromen, retsikhesBecause if not for the wars, Pogroms, slaughter,
Volt ikh oykhet gevezn Eyropes a kind.I too would have been Europe's progeny.
S'iz shoyn undzer a velt, do fargangen in flamen,Our world has already gone done in flames here,
Opgezundert di tsvaygn fun yidishn boym,Branches severed from the Jewish tree,
Nor nokh a mol boyt men uf moyern, tsamen,Yet again walls and fences are being built,
Faryogn di, nebekh, vos zukhn a heym.And you persecute those poor souls seeking a home.
Af s'nay traybt ir yene avek fun di tirn,You drive them anew from your gates,
Me yogt zay shoyn vider durkh nekht fun krishtalHunting them through nights of broken glass.
Oy, vos far a khutspe, azoy zikh tsu firn,What chutzpa you have to act like that --
Mir zoln in aykh den tsuzetsn di gal?Are we supposed to forgive you?
  
Ir frest uf shoyn vider di eygene kinder,Again you devour your own children,
Far merder ir makht zay, far blutike hint,Turning them into murderers, bloodthirsty dogs.
Un zayere retsikhes kukt ir on vi blinde,Then turning a blind eye to their crimes
Biz gants Eyrope iz vey un iz vind.Until all of Europe has been laid waste. . .
  
To zing, mayn fidele, shpil, mayn fideleSo sing, my fiddle, Play, my fiddle,
Vi frier hot nit geshilt keynerLike no one who has played before.
Un shpil mir tsu a sheyn goles-lidlAnd play me a sweet Diaspora song,
Mit a benkshaft a reyner.With a longing that's pure.


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