אין גאַסן — פֿאַר וואָלפֿישער שׂנאה
In the streets — for wolfish hatred
Work 179 of 440
Page 222. 'Lider fun Umkum' poems DALED conclusion and HEY. Poem DALED continued: The poet-wolf in the streets: 'for wolfish hatred there is enough prey, sweet is the steaming blood from bodies, but sweeter the dry dust on cut-off lips, that rests.' Throats struggle, necks call: 'let the deadly bite finally come. The bite — that is I, but — I do not come.' He hardens his body, returns to his lair, curls up but stays awake, 'never tired to carry between the teeth the holy song like the wolf his lonely bone.' The poet as predator who refuses to strike, carrying poetry instead of delivering death. Poem HEY, 'Oysgefeyniktеr' (Tortured One): 'Tortured one in the warlike day — not yet the final pain!' Night comes as a new beginning. 'Spur on your evening-horse, chase with whistling whip, swallow new blood into your body. Mixture of sky-green, moon-red, and knife-like star-white — for new blood the new nourishment.' The colors of twilight as nourishment for the tortured one's renewal.
אין גאַסן — פֿאַר וואָלפֿישער שׂנאה
גענוג איז דאָ רויב,
און זיס איז פֿון לײַבער
דאָס דאַמפּיקע בלוט:
נאָר זיסער דער טרוקענער שטויב
אויף ליפּן פֿאַרהאַקטע, וואָס רוט.
אויף גאָרגלען — געראַנגל,
פֿון העלדזער — דער רוף:
זאָל איינמאָל שוין קומען
דער טויטלעכער ביס.
דער ביס — דאָס בין איך,
נאָר — איך קום ניט.
איך האַרבע צוזאַמען מײַן גוף,
דעם קאָפּ ביז אַרונטער די פֿיס.
צוריק צו מײַן הייל.
אויף געלעגער — אַ קנויל.
נאָר וואַך בין איך,
קיינמאָל נישט מיד
צו טראָגן צווישן די ציין
דאָס הייליקע ליד
ווי דער וואָלף זײַן עלנטן ביין.
ה
אויסגעפֿײַניקטער
אויסגעפֿײַניקטער אין קריגערישן טאָג —
נאָך נישט די לעצטע פּײַן! —
די נאַכט קומט אָן פֿון ס'נײַ אַן אָנהייב זײַן.
שפּאַר אָן דײַן אָוונט־פֿערד, צעיאָג
מיט פֿײַפֿנדיקן קנוט,
און שלינג אין גוף אַרײַן דיר נײַעם בלוט.
געמיש פֿון הימל־גרין, לבֿנה־רויט
און חלפֿדיקן שטערן־ווײַס —
פֿאַר נײַעם בלוט די נײַע שפּײַז.
In gasn — far volfisher sine
genug iz do royb,
un zis iz fun layber
dos dampike blut:
nor ziser der trukener shtoyb
oyf lipn farhakte, vos rut.
Oyf gorglen — gerangl,
fun heldzer — der ruf:
zol eynmol shoyn kumen
der toytlekher bis.
Der bis — dos bin ikh,
nor — ikh kum nit.
Ikh harbe tsunamen mayn guf,
dem kop biz arunter di fis.
Tsurik tsu mayn heyl.
Oyf geleger — a knoyl.
Nor vakh bin ikh,
keynmol nisht mid
tsu trogn tsvishn di tseyn
dos heylike lid
vi der volf zayn elntn beyn.
HEY
Oysgefeyniktеr
Oysgefeyniktеr in krigerishn tog —
nokh nisht di letste payn! —
di nakht kumt on fun s'nay an onheyb zayn.
Shpar on dayn ovnt-ferd, tseyog
mit fayfndikn knut,
un shling in guf arayn dir nayem blut.
Gemish fun himl-grin, levone-royt
un khalеfdikn shtern-vays —
far nayem blut di naye shpayz.
In the streets — for wolfish hatred
there is enough prey,
and sweet is from bodies
the steaming blood:
but sweeter the dry dust
on lips cut-off, that rests.
On throats — struggling,
from necks — the call:
let it finally come
the deadly bite.
The bite — that is I,
but — I do not come.
I harden together my body,
the head down to the feet.
Back to my lair.
On my bedding — a ball.
But awake am I,
never tired
to carry between the teeth
the holy song
like the wolf his lonely bone.
HEY
Tortured One
Tortured one in the warlike day —
not yet the final pain! —
the night comes anew a beginning to be.
Spur on your evening-horse, chase
with whistling whip,
and swallow into your body new blood.
Mixture of sky-green, moon-red
and knife-like star-white —
for new blood the new nourishment.
Page 222. 'Lider fun Umkum' poems DALED conclusion and HEY. Poem DALED continued: The poet-wolf in the streets: 'for wolfish hatred there is enough prey, sweet is the steaming blood from bodies, but sweeter the dry dust on cut-off lips, that rests.' Throats struggle, necks call: 'let the deadly bite finally come. The bite — that is I, but — I do not come.' He hardens his body, returns to his lair, curls up but stays awake, 'never tired to carry between the teeth the holy song like the wolf his lonely bone.' The poet as predator who refuses to strike, carrying poetry instead of delivering death. Poem HEY, 'Oysgefeyniktеr' (Tortured One): 'Tortured one in the warlike day — not yet the final pain!' Night comes as a new beginning. 'Spur on your evening-horse, chase with whistling whip, swallow new blood into your body. Mixture of sky-green, moon-red, and knife-like star-white — for new blood the new nourishment.' The colors of twilight as nourishment for the tortured one's renewal.
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