און די פֿײַער־קוילן פֿון די אַנדערשדיקע אויגן
And the fire-coals of the otherworldly eyes
Work 108 of 440
Page 123. 'The Simulant' conclusion: The fire-coals of otherworldly eyes roll through dizzying corridors, kindling 'the stormy, blinding light of all freedoms.' Guards sound alarms, keys pierce locks, whips crack on the naked blinding body of the one who rolls bound in rough ropes down to the depths of the stormed and lit prison. The city clock advances from twelve to one to two: boom, boom. The simulant has created chaos through his feigned madness — 'freedom from all freedoms' through self-destruction. 'House of Mourning' (Hoyz fun Avles): A poem of sitting shiva. What will be? Nothing will be. People stand at the door, come in, examine the empty mourning house, go out. The waxen shine (candles) falls on the speaker's face. He sits and guards the lament of empty walls and ceiling. The ritual of mourning reduced to its elemental emptiness.
און די פֿײַער־קוילן פֿון די אַנדערשדיקע אויגן
קייקלען זיך פֿון טיר צו טיר, פֿון טרעפּ צו טרעפּ
פֿון אַלע שווינדלענדיקע קאָרידאָרן
און צינדן, צינדן, צינדן
דאָס שטורעמדיקע, בלענדנדיקע ליכט פֿון אַלע פֿרײַהייטן.
וועכטער קלאַפּן אין טרעוואָגע־גלאָקן,
שליסלען לעכערן דאָס האַרץ פֿון שלעסער,
בײַטשן קנאַלן, ריטער פֿײַפֿן
אויף דעם נאַקעטן און בלענדנדיקן גוף
פֿון דעם —
וואָס קייקלט זיך אַן אײַנגעבונדענער אין גראָבע שטריק
פֿון טרעפּ צו טרעפּ אַרונטער צו די טיפֿענישן
פֿון דעם אויפֿגעשטורעמטן און אויפֿגעלויכטענעם צענטראַל.
דער שטאָט־זייגער
נאָכן אָפּשלאָגן צוועלף מאָל בום,
און נאָכן אומקערן זיך צוריק צום אָנהייב — צום אײנס,
נעענטערט זײַנע ווײַזערס צו דעם צײכן צוויי
און שלאָגט: בום. בום.
הויז פֿון אבֿלות
וואָס וועט זײַן? וואָס וועט זײַן? —
עס וועט גאָרנישט ניט זײַן —
מענטשן שטייען בײַ דער טיר,
מענטשן קומען אַרײַן,
באַטראַכטן דאָס ליידיקע אָבֿלע הויז,
און גייען אַרויס.
וואָס וועט זײַן? וואָס וועט זײַן? —
עס וועט גאָרנישט ניט זײַן —
עס פֿאַלט אויף מײַן פּנים
די וואַקסענע שײַן:
איך זיץ און איך היט
דאָס קלאָגליד פֿון ליידיקע ווענט און סופֿיט.
Un di fayer-koyln fun di andershdike oygn
keyklen zikh fun tir tsu tir, fun trep tsu trep
fun ale shvindlendike korіdоrn
un tsindn, tsindn, tsindn
dos shturеmdike, blendndike likht fun ale frayhayn.
Vekhter klapn in trevоge-glokn,
shlislen lekhern dos harts fun shleser,
baytshon knaln, riter fayfn
oyf dem naketn un blendndikn guf
fun dem —
vos keyklt zikh an ayngebundеner in grobe shtrik
fun trep tsu trep arunter tsu di tifеnishn
fun dem oyfgeshturemtn un oyfgeloykhtenem tsentral.
Der shtot-zeyger
nokhn opshlogn tsvelf mol bum,
un nokhn umkern zikh tsurik tsum onheyb — tsum eyns,
neentert zayne vayzers tsu dem tseykhn tsvey
un shlogt: bum. bum.
Hoyz fun Avles
Vos vet zayn? Vos vet zayn? —
es vet gornisht nit zayn —
mentshn shteyen bay der tir,
mentshn kumen arayn,
batrakhn dos leydike ovle hoyz,
un geyen aroys.
Vos vet zayn? Vos vet zayn? —
es vet gornisht nit zayn —
es falt oyf mayn ponem
di vaksene shayn:
ikh zits un ikh hit
dos klogid fun leydike vent un sufit.
And the fire-coals of the otherworldly eyes
roll from door to door, from step to step
through all the dizzying corridors
and kindle, kindle, kindle
the stormy, blinding light of all freedoms.
Guards bang on alarm-bells,
keys pierce the heart of locks,
whips crack, rods whistle
on the naked and blinding body
of the one —
who rolls bound in rough ropes
from step to step down to the depths
of the stormed and lit-up central prison.
The city clock
after striking twelve times boom,
and after turning back to the beginning — to one,
nears its hands to the mark of two
and strikes: boom. boom.
House of Mourning
What will be? What will be? —
nothing at all will be —
people stand at the door,
people come in,
examine the empty mourning house,
and go out.
What will be? What will be? —
nothing at all will be —
there falls on my face
the waxen shine:
I sit and I guard
the lament of empty walls and ceiling.
Page 123. 'The Simulant' conclusion: The fire-coals of otherworldly eyes roll through dizzying corridors, kindling 'the stormy, blinding light of all freedoms.' Guards sound alarms, keys pierce locks, whips crack on the naked blinding body of the one who rolls bound in rough ropes down to the depths of the stormed and lit prison. The city clock advances from twelve to one to two: boom, boom. The simulant has created chaos through his feigned madness — 'freedom from all freedoms' through self-destruction. 'House of Mourning' (Hoyz fun Avles): A poem of sitting shiva. What will be? Nothing will be. People stand at the door, come in, examine the empty mourning house, go out. The waxen shine (candles) falls on the speaker's face. He sits and guards the lament of empty walls and ceiling. The ritual of mourning reduced to its elemental emptiness.
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