Jan 292015
 

Yehuda Amiḥai (1924 – 2000)
Beginning of Summer

These days God abandons the earth
to head to his summer home
in the shadowy peaks which are you,
and leaves us to the khamseen, to the sword, and to zeal.

We won’t talk for much longer. We won’t live
for much longer. Eternity’s a perfected form
of mutual solitude.

A sweet sensation between our legs
will speak to the weakness of lingering
and words’ sorrow to tell it.

יהודה עמיחי
תחילת קיץ


בְּיָמִים אֵלֶּה עוֹזֵב אֱלֹהִים אֶת הָאָרֶץ,
לָלֶכֶת לִמְעוֹן הַקַּיִץ שֶׁלוֹ
בֶּהָרִים הָאֲפֵלִים שֶׁהֵם אַתְּ,
וּמַשְׁאִיר אוֹתָנוּ לַשָּׁרָב, לַחֶרֶב וְלַקִּנְאָה.

לֹא נַאֲרִיךְ בִּדְבָרִים. לֹא נַאֲרִיךְ בִּכְלָל
לִהְיוֹת. נֶצַח הוּא צוּרָה
מֻשְׁלֶמֶת שֶׁל בְּדִידוּת הֲדָדִית.

תְּחוּשָׁה מְתוּקָה בֵּין רַגְלַיִם
תֹּאמַר לָנוּ עַל חֻלְשַׁת הַשָּׁהוּת
וְעַל עַצְבוּת הַמִּלִּים לוֹמַר.
י

Jan 292015
 

Shaul Tchernichovsky (1875 – 1943)
Above Lifeless Plains

Above lifeless plains,1 ev’ry valley forsaken,
The heavens hung darkly, their majesty taken,
So dreary and hollowing, wroth as if cheated,
By woe become apathy drained and depleted.

What’s proffered beneath? Sylvan tombs, deep beclouded?
All silent, abandoned, like dead men beshrouded;
If not time’s own sepulchres, ages now ended,
Has being’s vitality passed on expended?

And where are the living? A thorn’s shadow quiv’ring,
The tracks of a wolf, starving, straying and shiv’ring?
A kurgan forgotten, stone Scythian safeguard,
Which my heart beheld with relief in the graveyard.

Expanses around me! The heavens’ wide hollows,
And that of the earth which the night eager swallows!
Fine strings wrap around the heart, wounded and speechless,
Alone in the distance, exiled in the reaches———

שאול טשרניחובסקי
על ערבות מתות

 
עַל עֲרָבוֹת מֵתוֹת, גַּיְא וָגַיְא שׁוֹמֵמִים,
נִתְלוּ הַשָּׁמַיִם כֵּהִים, חִדְלֵי-אֵימִים,
נוּגִים וּמִתְרוֹקְנִים, זְעוּמִים כְּאִלּוּ רִמּוּם,
יְגֵעִים מִתּוֹךְ יֵאוּשׁ הָפַךְ וְהָיָה שִׁעְמוּם.
 
מַה זֶּה יֻצַּע תַּחְתַּי: קִבְרוֹת-יַעַר? שִׂיחִים?
הַכֹּל הַכֹּל שׁוֹמֵם, דּוֹמֵם וּבְתַכְרִיכִים
אִם לֹא קִבְרוֹת-הַזְּמָן פֹּה וְעִדָּנִים סָפוּ,
כֹּחוֹת-הַהֲוָיָה חָלְפוּ וַיִּיעָפוּ?!
 
וְאַיֵּה הֵם הַחַיִּים? וְלוּ צֵל-קַל שֶׁל אָטָד,
עִקְּבוֹת זְאֵב שֶׁרָעַב וְתָעָה וּבְקוֹר רָטַט?
אוֹ גַל נִשְׁכָּח וְעָלָיו אֶבֶן-סְקִיטִים-גּוֹלָם –
וְרָאָה לִבִּי וְרָוַח לוֹ בְּבֵית-הָעוֹלָם.
 
מֶרְחַב סָבִיב! מֶרְחַב הַשָּׁמַיִם מַעְלָה,
מֶרְחָב לָאֲדָמָה נִבְלַע בְּזֶה שֶׁל לַיְלָה!
וְהַלֵּב הַכּוֹאֵב נִתְפָּשׂ בְּנִימִים דַקִּים
יְחִידִי בַּמֶּרְחַבְיָה, גּוֹלֶה בַּמֶּרְחַקִּים – – –
י

Transliteration/תעתיק:

Al aróvoys méisoys, gai va-gái shoyméimim,
Níslu ha-shomáyim kéihim, khídlei éimim,
Núgim u-misróyknim, ze’úmim kílu rímum,
Yegéi’im mi-tóykh yéi’ush hófakh ve-hóyo shímum.

Mah zeh yútza tákhti: kívroys yá’ar? Síkhim?
Ha-kóyl ha-kóyl shóymeim, dóymeim u-ve-sakhríkhim
Im lo kívroys ha-zmán po ve-idónim sófu,
Kóykhot ha-havóyoh khólfu va-yi’ófu?!

Ve-áyeih heim ha-kháyim? Ve-lú tzéil-kal shel ‘ótod,
Íkvoys zev she-ró’av ve-tó’oh uv-kóyr rótat?
Oy gal níshkakh ve-‘ólov éven skítim góylom —
Ve-ró’oh líbi ve-róvakh loy be-véis ho-óylom.

Mérkhav sóviv! Mérkhav ha-shomáyim máloh,
Mérkhav lo-adómoh nívla be-zéh shel láiloh!
Ve-ha-léiv ha-kóyeiv níspos be-nímim dákim
Yekhídi ba-merkhávyoh, góyleh ba-merkhákim ———

  1. In southern Russia, to the north of the Black Sea.
Jan 282015
 

Federico García Lorca
Madrugada

Pero como el amor
los saeteros
están ciegos.

Sobre la noche verde,
las saetas,
dejan rastros de lirio
caliente.

La quilla de la luna
rompe nubes moradas
y las aljabas
se llenan de rocío.

¡Ay, pero como el amor
los seateros
están ciegos!

פדריקו גארסיה לורקה
דמדומי שחר


אֲבָל כְּמוֹ הָאַהֲבָה
הַקַּשָּׁתִים
הֵם סוּמִים.

מֵעַל הַלַּיִל הַיָּרֹק
הָחִצִּים
סוֹלְלִים נְתִיבוֹת מִשּׁוֹשַׁנִים
חֲמִימוֹת.

שִׁדְרִית הַלְּבָנָה
מַבְקִיעָה עֲנָנִים סְגֻלִּים
וְאַשְׁפּוֹת הָחִצִּים
מִתְמַלְּאוֹת בְּטַל.

אֲהָהּ, אֲבָל כְּמוֹ הָאַהֲבָה
הַקַּשָּׁתִים
הֵם סוּמִים!
י

Jan 262015
 

Dahlia Ravikovitch (1936 – 2005)
Many Waters

A ship
drifts with no anchor
there’s a sail
but no wind on the sea.
The sea widens
it spills into the ocean.
From horizon to horizon
no shadows.
The ship is old
from the fifteenth century.
No motor.
She was sailing to India.
The bread went moldy.
A plague broke out.
The sail’s torn.
The water ran dry.
Maybe a rowboat of natives will come
and bring maize
or something to swallow.
The captain despairs
he leaps into the water.
Better that he drowns.
In the meantime he floats
beside the ship.
The first mate peers through the looking glass.
No India and no bread.
No meat and no fish.
A sailor sinks his teeth into a rotting plank.
And the hunger’s unbearable.
The ship won’t get anywhere.
This ship
the Dahlia Maria
will sink today.
She’s sinking today.

דליה רביקוביץ
מים רבים

 
אֳנִיָּה
צָפָה בְּלִי עֹגֶן
יֵשׁ לָהּ מִפְרָשׂ
אֲבָל בַּיָּם אֵין רוּחַ.
הַיָּם מִתְרַחֵב
הוּא נִשְׁפַּךְ לָאוֹקְיָנוֹס.
מֵאֹפֶק עַד אֹפֶק
אֵין צֵל.
הָאֳנִיָּה עַתִּיקָה
מִן הַמֵּאָה הַחֲמֵשׁ עֶשְׂרֵה.
אֵין לָהּ מָנוֹעַ.
הִיא הִפְלִיגָה לְהֹדּוּ.
הַלֶּחֶם הִתְעַפֵּשׁ.
פָּרְצָה בָּהּ מַגֵּפָה.
הַמִּפְרָשׂ קָרוּעַ.
הַמַּיִם אָזְלוּ.
אוּלַי סִירַת יְלִידִים תַּגִּיעַ
וְתַּבִיא תִּירָס
אוֹ מָשֶׁהוּ לִבְלוֹעַ.
רַב הַחוֹבֵל נוֹאַשׁ
הוּא קוֹפֵץ לַמַּיִם.
מוּטָב לוֹ לִטְבּוֹעַ.
בֵּינְתַיִם הוּא צָף
בְּסָמוּךְ לָאֳנִיָּה.
הַחוֹבֵל הַשֵּׁנִי מִסְתַּכֵּל בַּמִּשְׁקֶפֶת.
אֵין הֹדּוּ וְאֵין לֶחֶם.
אֵין בָּשָֹר וְאֵין דָּגִים.
מַלָּח אֶחָד נָעַץ שִׁנָּיו בְּקֶרֶשׁ רָקוּב.
וְהָרָעָב אָיֹם.
הָאֳנִיָּה לֹא תַּגִּיעַ לְשׁוּם מָקוֹם.
הָאֳנִיָּה הַזּאֹת
הִיא דַּלְיָה מָרִיָה
הִיא תִּטְבַּע הַיּוֹם.
הִיא טוֹבַעַת הַיּוֹם.
י

Transliteration/תעתיק:

‘Oniyáh
tzáfah bli ʕógen
yeish la mifrás
‘avál ba-yám ‘ein rúaḥ.
Ha-yám mitraḥéiv
hu nishpákh la-‘okyános.
Mei-‘ófeq ʕad ‘ófeiq
‘ein tzeil.
Ha-‘oniyáh ʕatiqáh
min ha-mei’áh ha-ḥaméish ʕésreih.
‘Ein lah manóaʕ.
Hi hiflígah le-hódu.
Ha-léḥem hitʕapéish.
Partzáh bah mageifáh.
Ha-mifrás qarúaʕ.
Ha-máyim ‘azlú.
‘Ulái sirát yelidím tagíaʕ
ve-taví tirás
‘o máshehu livlóaʕ.
Rav ha-ḥovéil no’ásh
hu qoféitz la-máyim.
Mutáv lo litbóaʕ.
Beinetáyim hu tzaf
be-samúkh la-‘oniyáh.
Ha-ḥovéil ha-sheiní mistakéil ba-mishqéfet.
‘Ein hódu ve-‘éin léḥem.
‘Ein basár ve-‘éin dagím.
Maláḥ ‘eḥád naʕátz shináv be-qéresh raqúv.
Ve-ha-ráʕav ‘ayóm.
Ha-‘oniyáh lo tagíaʕ le-shúm maqóm.
Ha-‘oniyáh ha-zót
hi dalyáh maría
hi titbáʕ ha-yóm.
Hi továʕat ha-yóm.

Jan 262015
 

It was when I came here from New York. (Ha, I say ‘it was,’ as if there was something to it at all…) But at any rate…at any rate: not ‘it was!’ If we have to say it that way, then not ‘it was’ — I should say, ‘they were.’ And I don’t deny it: such combinations of things, really, there were. And maybe that’s the whole point…how all sorts of things were connected this way…things that are easier to misunderstand than understand…the way it is when one considers journeys and their travelers…I mean to say, travelers on a journey…and so?

Right. When I came here. I came here. Why? Why did I come here? What did I hope such a journey would accomplish? But that almost doesn’t seem relevant, I mean, to the meat of the thing. But haven’t you heard me say all this already? Like everyone who’s ever thought about his life since time immemorial, I too came to the realization that this riddle, the riddle of this life, ‘shall never be solved,’ for whatever comes after my life I won’t see or understand until the end of time…or at all, really…as it’s said, ‘Nothing shall be’…and even worse, not just what comes after my life — what my life itself is I’ll never understand, and what I am in this world and what I was before I was myself, and what I’ll be after I’m gone…(look, the moon…trembling silvery gold…what day of the month is it today?)…yes. By whose hands was I hurled into the fullness of this world to breathe, to live, to take in the heavens and the earth, to be warmed by the rays of the sun and chilled by daggers of cold? (I mean, I’m not cold now, I’m speaking generally). Yes, to suffer in early springs and be weighed down with sorrow in gloomy falls, if one can use a poet’s tongue, and behold, such a wonder: through it all I always saw that final moment, after which nothing comes, the final moment, destined to come, forcing me to think about it at all times, after which everything changes, no dreaming, no waking, for the rest of eternity, that same moment that nullifies all…what are you laughing for? My turns of phrase or just that I dwell on all this so much? (Look, you’re sitting right next to the cactus, you’re going to get pricked…)

In short: that same moment, before which there is truly neither sacred nor profane, neither beauty nor ugliness, no beloved, no hated, no important, no unimportant, and even so, with all the travails of life and the impossibility of understanding it, we don’t want it to come, that is, lifelessness…

And so…when I came here…I knew already…I knew all about these shopworn opinions (almost shamefully shopworn and banal, yes indeed, shopworn, banal — and still true!)…and I knew as well (for has so much time really passed since then?) that despite these opinions of mine, and despite my feelings, here I was, like everyone who ever opined or felt anything throughout time, compelled, against my will, despite my best intentions…to heed my own will…yes, my own will…and like everyone around me, like you and like others as well, the thoughtful and the thoughtless, the heedful and the heedless…to fill that all-consuming empty space, which can’t be filled until one’s final moments, and perhaps not at all…who knows…

In New York — you’re not asleep? you’re listening? — in New York, where I was for eight years, ever since leaving Ukraine, the land of my birth, I spent every moment in a factory (a sweatshop, actually!) where I would cast into the yawning abyss button after button — the same I would sew onto tens of thousands of pants every single month (in a vile “workshop,” utterly and disgustingly vile, I have to tell you!)…and truly I knew, I felt, that the mouth of this gaping abyss was nothing more than diverted, pushed aside, by whatever I threw at it (of filling it there was no hope whatsoever!), yet on the other hand, it was no secret to me that the buttons weren’t entirely at fault, and that this abyss of terrors, to frame it in the proper words, couldn’t be bridged by oranges either, the kind I would pick and carry by the crate in the orchards of the Promised Land, when I arrived there (when there was work to be had, when I wasn’t overcome with malaria)…and still, off I ran! Because I was, so to speak, full of life — feh, what am I saying? — I meant to say, full of life’s clever notions — you understand? That is, full of the hidden, unconscious power of life, the kind that rules over our instincts and sometimes, sometimes manages by itself to make our search for meaning almost pleasant…yet I couldn’t, I wasn’t willing, to free myself from this irrational aspiration, so to speak, towards something else, some other notion, some other place — that’s the inherent attraction of it, really…so my understanding, the same understanding come to by Qohelet the son of David, king in Jerusalem, was one thing, but the direction of my actual life, oh, that was another thing entirely…something devoted, when I could direct it without falling victim to the influence of the understanding part of me, to…my necessities! Sewing, salary, The Free Worker’s Voice, a pair of shoes, the torments of sex — just the concerns of the hour alone!

And don’t I know it? Perhaps in the depths of my soul something trembled and pricked me on to travel, if one can speak in a literary fashion, and also to heed the stirrings of longing for a new, more beautiful horizon (after all, I never sat on a tel like this after work in New York!), and perhaps even for some kind of homeland, which, as a Jew, I’d never known since I first breathed the air of this world, all my life, all…even if I include the early days of my childhood under the sweetly beloved skies of Ukraine with its lovely shiksas, who would toss your clothes into the water every time you bathed in the sweetly beloved river — hah! I don’t know — what do you think of it all? — I don’t know, perhaps deep inside me fluttered some little shred of hope, to…to find a foothold, any foothold at all, to absorb something there, in that promised land, on the fringes of Asia, where the tents of the Bedouin, maybe the sons of the sons of Abraham the Hebrew, are pitched to this day; where there are camels to mount, just like Eliezer, Abraham’s servant, did in his time; and where (and this is the heart of it!) the third- and fourth-generation descendants of tax collectors for the Polish nobility try to walk in the plow’s furrows…there…I mean to say, here…ahh, ‘let me go over and see that good land, that goodly mountain, and Lebanon…’”

Nu, and in the end? Did you find a foothold? Are you ‘absorbing?’”

Yet immediately I felt that there had been no good reason to interrupt him. My voice seemed off to me, crudely dissonant.

He absentmindedly plucked a blade of grass and crushed it between his fingers.

Jan 202015
 

Yehuda Amiḥai (1924 – 2000)
Try Again

And my scream is made of strange peaks and valleys
like a complicated key.
It will be hard to use it to open
the world, hard, troubling the sleep.
Try again, come once more.
Leaves on the tree suddenly rustle.
They know, a bit before we do,
about the coming wind, try again,
there’s a back door, through the garden.
Perhaps a miracle of quiet, convincing speech
might draw water from stone. Don’t
strike it, just speak.

יהודה עמיחי
נסי שוב


וְצַעֲקָתִי עֲשׂוּיָה זִיזִים מוּזָרִים
כְּמַפְתֵּחַ מְסֻבָּך.
קָשֶׁה יִהְיֶה לִפְתֹּחַ בָּהּ אֶת
הָעוֹלָם, קָשֶׁה וּמַכְאִיב לַשֵּׁנָה.
נַסִּי שׁוּב, בֹּאִי עוֹד פַּעַם.
עָלִים בָּאִילָן מְרַשְׁרְשִׁים פִּתְאוֹם.
הֵם יוֹדְעִים קְצָת לְפָנֵינוּ עַל
בּוֹא הָרוּחַ, נַסִּי שׁוּב,
יֶשְׁנָהּ דֶּלֶת אֲחוֹרִית, דֶּרֶך הַגָּן.
אוּלַי נֵס שֶׁל דִּבּוּר שָׁקֵט וּמְשַׁכְנֵעַ
שֶׁיּוֹצִיא מַיִם מִסֶּלַע. לֹא
לְהַכּוֹת, רַק לְדַּבֵּר.
י

Transliteration/תעתיק:

Ve-tzaʕaqatí ʕasuyáh zizím muzarím
ke-maftéiaḥ mesubákh.
Qashéh yihyéh liftóaḥ bah
ha-ʕolám, qashéh u-makh’ív la-sheináh.
Nasí shuv, bó’i ʕod páʕam.
ʕalím ba-‘ilán merashreshím pit’óm.
Heim yodʕím qetzát lefanéinu ʕal
bo ha-rúaḥ, nasí shuv,
Yéshnah délet ‘aḥorít, dérekh ha-gán.
‘Ulái neis shel dibúr shaqéit u-meshakhnéiaʕ
she-yotzí máyim mi-sélaʕ. Lo
lehakót, raq ledabéir.

Jan 202015
 
Berry Sakharof and Rea Mokhiach - Shfal Ruaḥ

Shlomo ibn Gabirol (1021? – 1058?)
Cowed in Spirit

Cowed in spirit, with bended knees and bowed back,
I come to you burdened with great fear and dread.
In your mighty presence, I seem to myself
As a miniscule worm that crawls in the dirt.
Does the fullness of earth, whose expanse knows no end,
Praise you like I do, and what are its means?
The angels on high can’t encompass your splendor —
And that being true, how much less then could I!
The font of my wisdom, my God, I’ll seek out,
Who garners the praise of the souls of all life.

שלמה אבן גבירול / سليمان ابن جبيرول
שפל רוח

 
שְׁפַל רוּחַ, שְׁפַל בֶּרֶךְ וְקוֹמָה,
אֲקַדֶּמְךָ בְּרֹב פַּחַד וְאֵימָה.
לְפָנֶיךָ אֲנִי נֶחְשָׁב בְּעֵינַי
כְּתוֹלַעַת קְטַנָּה בָאֲדָמָה.
מְלֹא עוֹלָם, אֲשֶׁר אֵין קֵץ לְגָדְלוֹ,
הֲכָמֹנִי יְהַלֶּלְךָ, וּבַמֶּה?
הֲדָרְךָ לֹא יְכִילוּן מַלְאֲכֵי‑רוֹם ‑
וְעַל אַחַת אֲנִי כַּמָּה וְכַמָּה!
אֲשַׁחֵר אֵל בְּרֵאשִׁית רַעֲיוֹנַי
אֲשׁר לִשְׁמוֹ תְהַלֵּל כֹּל נְשָׁמָה.
י

Transliteration/תעתיק:

Shefál rúaḥ, shefál bérekh ve-qomáh,
‘Aqadémkha be-róv páḥad ve-‘eimáh.
Lefanéikha ‘aní neḥsháv be-ʕeinái
Ke-toláʕat qetanáh ba-‘adamáh.
Meló ʕolám, ‘ashér ein qeitz le-godló,
Ha-khamóni yehalélkha, u-va-méh?
Hadarkhá lo yekhilún mal’akhéi rom —
Ve-ʕal aḥát, ‘aní kámah ve-khámah!
‘Ashaḥéi ‘eil bereishít raʕayonái
‘Ashér lishmó tehaléil kol neshamáh.

Jan 182015
 

Pablo Neruda
Siempre

Antes de mí
no tengo celos.

Ven con un hombre
a la espalda,
ven con cien hombres en tu cabellera,
ven con mil hombres entre tu pecho y tus pies,
ven como un río
lleno de ahogados
que encuentra el mar furioso,
la espuma eterna, el tiempo!

Tráelos todos
adonde yo te espero:
siempre estaremos solos,
siempre estaremos tú y yo
solos sobre la tierra
para comenzar la vida.

פבלו נרודה
תמיד


בְּפָנַיִךְ
אֲנִי לֹא קַנַּאי.

בֹּאִי עִם גֶּבֶר
בְּגַבֵּךְ,
בֹּאִי עִם מֵאָה גְבָרִים בִּשְׂעָרֵךְ,
בֹּאִי עִם אֶלֶף גְּבָרִים בֵּין חָזֵךְ לְרַגְלַיִךְ,
בֹּאִי כְּמוֹ נָהָר
מָלֵא טְבוּעִים
שֶׁפּוֹגֵשׁ אֶת הַיָּם הַזּוֹעֵף,
אֶת נֶצַח הַקֶּצֶף, אֶת הַזְּמָן.

הָבִיאִי אֶת כֻּלָּם
לְמָקוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ אַמְתִּין לָךְ:
תָּמִיד נִהְיֶה לְבַדֵּנוּ,
תָּמִיד נִהְיֶה, אַתְּ וַאֲנִי,
לְבַדֵּנוּ עֲלֵי אֲדָמוֹת
לְהַתְחִיל אֶת הַחַיִּים.
י

Jan 172015
 

Yehuda Amiḥai (1924 – 2000)
Instructions for the Waitress

Don’t clear the plates and glasses
from the table. Don’t rub
the stain from out the tablecloth! It’s good for me to know
there lived others in this world before me.

I buy shoes that were once on another man’s feet.
My friend has thoughts of his own.

My love’s a married woman.
My night’s used up with dreams.
Drops of rain are painted on my window,
the margins of my books are filled with others’ comments.
On the blueprints of the house I want to live in
the architect has sketched in strangers at the door.
On my bed’s a pillow, with
the indent of head no longer there.

So please don’t clear
the table.
It’s good for me to know
there lived others in this world before me.

יהודה עמיחי
הוראות למלצרית


אַל תּוֹרִידִי אֶת הַכּוֹסוֹת וְהַצַּלָּחוֹת
מִן הַשֻּׁלְחָן. אַל תִּמְחֲקִי
אֶת הַכֶּתֶם מִן הַמַּפָּה!
טוֹב כִּי אֵדַע:
חָיוּ לְפָנַי בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה.

אֲנִי קוֹנֶה נַעֲלַיִם שֶֹהָיוּ בְּרַגְלֵי אָדָם אַחֵר.
לִידִידִי מַחֲשָׁבוֹת מִשֶּׁלּוֹ.

אֲהוּבָתִי הִיא אֵשֶׁת אִישׁ.
לֵילִי מְשֻׁמָּשׁ בַּחֲלוֹמוֹת.
עַל חַלּוֹנִי מְצֻיָּרוֹת טִפּוֹת גֶּשֶׁם.
בְּשׁוּלֵי סִפְרִי הֶעָרוֹת שֶׁאֲחֵרִים רָשְׁמוּ.
בְּתָכְנִית הַבַּיִת, שֶׁבּוֹ אֲנִי רוֹצֶה לָגוּר,
צִיֵּר הָאַדְרִיכָל אֲנָשִׁים זָרִים לְיַד הַפֶּתַח.
עַל מִטָּתִי כַּר, שֶׁבּוֹ
גֻּמָּה שֶׁל רֹאשׁ שֶׁאֵינֶנּוּ.

לָכֵן, אַל תּוֹרִידִי
מִן הַשֻּׁלְחָן.
טוֹב כִּי אֵדַע:
חָיוּ לְפָנַי בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה.
י

Transliteration/תעתיק:

‘Al torídi ‘et ha-kosót ve-ha-tzalaḥót
min ha-shulḥán. ‘Al timḥaqí
‘et ha kétem min ha-mapáh!
Tov ki ‘eidáʕ:
Ḥayú lefanái ba-ʕolám ha-zéh.

‘Aní qonéh naʕaláyim she-hayú be-ragléi ‘adám ‘aḥéir.
Lididí maḥashavót misheló.

‘Ahuvatí hi ‘éishet ‘ish.
Leilí meshumásh ba-ḥalomót.
ʕal ḥaloní metzuyarót tipót géshem.
Be-shuléi sifrí heʕarót she-‘aḥeirím rashmú.
Be-tokhnít ha-báyit, she-bó ‘aní rotzéh lagúr,
tziyéir ha-‘adrikhál ‘anashím zarím le-yád ha-pétaḥ.
ʕal mitatí kar, she-bó
gumáh shel rosh she-‘einénu.

Lakhéin, ‘al torídi
min ha-shulḥán.
Tov ki ‘eidáʕ:
Ḥayú lefanái ba-ʕolám ha-zéh.