מיד
Tired
Work 129 of 440
Page 144. 'Tired' (Mid): A devastating litany of exhaustion. Nothing has happened, yet the speaker sits on a stone like one who hasn't slept for nights — tired. Uncovered roots, black pebbles, rain-water dragging — all tired. Wagon wheels roll and knock, tired. The horse's little bones break, tired. A voice argues within: 'Catastrophes everywhere, coming again and again. Who stays sitting in the midst of catastrophes like this, tired?' The speaker covers and uncovers his face. Then the shattering line: 'God himself, the lord of catastrophes, with stiff ropes has already killed the horse, now God himself from killing is tired.' Even the divine is exhausted by destruction. Sick flies crawl and fall, tired. The wagon wheels lie twisted; the horse's bones no longer break — everything has collapsed into stillness. A poem of cosmic fatigue, catastrophe-weariness, the exhaustion of God and creation alike.
מיד
גאָרנישט האָט פּאַסירט און גאָרנישט האָט געטראָפֿן;
נאָר אַזוי אַראָפּגעזעצט זיך אויפֿן ערשטן שטיין
ווי איינער וואָס האָט נאַכט נאָך נאַכט שוין נישט געשלאָפֿן —
מיד.
אָפּגעדעקטע וואָרצלען טאָרטשען פֿון דער ערד אַרויס
מיד.
צו די אָפּגעדעקטע וואָרצלען לאָז איך זיך אַראָפּ
מיד.
שוואַרצע שטיינדלעך ליגן אויף דער ערד;
און דאָס רעגן־וואַסער שלעפּט זיך איבער זיי
מיד.
רעדער פֿון אַ וואָגן, הער איך, קייקלען זיך און קלאַפּן
מיד.
און עס ברעכן זיך די קנעכלעך פֿונעם פֿערד
מיד.
עפּעס טענהט אינעווייניק אין מיר אַ קול
מיד:
„קאַטאַסטראָפֿעס, קאַטאַסטראָפֿעס — און די וועלט איז פֿול מיט זיי,
קאַטאַסטראָפֿעס וועלן קומען נאָכאַמאָל און נאָכאַמאָל.
ווער בלײַבט זיצן אין דער מיט פֿון קאַטאַסטראָפֿעס אָט אַזוי
מיד?
Mid
Gornisht hot pasirt un gornisht hot getrоfn;
nor azoy aropgezestт zikh oyfn ershtn shteyn
vi eyner vos hot nakht nokh nakht shoyn nisht geshlоfn —
mid.
Оpgedeкte vortslen tоrtshen fun der erd aroys
mid.
Tsu di оpgedeкte vortslen loz ikh zikh arоp
mid.
Shvartse shteyndlekh lign oyf der erd;
un dos regn-vaser shlept zikh iber zey
mid.
Reder fun a vоgn, her ikh, keyklen zikh un klapn
mid.
Un es brekhn zikh di knekhlekh funem ferd
mid.
Epes tent ineveуnik in mir a kol
mid:
'Katastrоfes, katastrоfes — un di velt iz ful mit zey,
katastrоfes veln kumen nokhamol un nokhamol.
Ver blaybt zitsn in der mit fun katastrоfes ot azoy
mid?'
Dek ikh op mayn ponem un fardek tsurik —
got aleyn, der har fun katastrоfes, hot mit shtayfe shtrik
shoyn dos ferd dershlogn, itst iz got aleyn fun shlogn
mid.
Kranke aуngеgesene un tsоrndike flign
poyzn, krikhn um un faln oyf der naser erd
mid:
un di reder funem vоgn оysgedreyте lign,
un es brekhn zikh nisht mer di knekhlekh funem ferd
mid.
Tired
Nothing has happened and nothing has occurred;
just so sat down on the first stone
like one who night after night has not slept —
tired.
Uncovered roots protrude from the earth
tired.
To the uncovered roots I let myself down
tired.
Black pebbles lie on the earth;
and the rain-water drags itself over them
tired.
Wheels of a wagon, I hear, roll and knock
tired.
And the little bones of the horse break
tired.
Something argues inside me a voice
tired:
'Catastrophes, catastrophes — and the world is full of them,
catastrophes will come again and again.
Who stays sitting in the middle of catastrophes just like this
tired?'
I uncover my face and cover again —
God himself, the lord of catastrophes, with stiff ropes
has already killed the horse, now God himself from killing is
tired.
Sick sunken-in and angry flies
pause, crawl around and fall on the wet earth
tired:
and the wheels of the wagon lie twisted out,
and the little bones of the horse no longer break
tired.
Page 144. 'Tired' (Mid): A devastating litany of exhaustion. Nothing has happened, yet the speaker sits on a stone like one who hasn't slept for nights — tired. Uncovered roots, black pebbles, rain-water dragging — all tired. Wagon wheels roll and knock, tired. The horse's little bones break, tired. A voice argues within: 'Catastrophes everywhere, coming again and again. Who stays sitting in the midst of catastrophes like this, tired?' The speaker covers and uncovers his face. Then the shattering line: 'God himself, the lord of catastrophes, with stiff ropes has already killed the horse, now God himself from killing is tired.' Even the divine is exhausted by destruction. Sick flies crawl and fall, tired. The wagon wheels lie twisted; the horse's bones no longer break — everything has collapsed into stillness. A poem of cosmic fatigue, catastrophe-weariness, the exhaustion of God and creation alike.
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