Futility

We suddenly felt the flesh that carried our pain and

our dreams were foreign to us since He had died: our God

and inappropriate it was not to consider

the undertaker’s tears. We had none, God was too old

we thought and finally, we understood the angel

who advised us to show compassion, who advocated

morality had also died, and we had to rely on the birds

to recommence our sentimental love and understand

our neighbor who started his day brandishing a pistol

in his hand, his eyes fixated on us as though saying

you better not… a sentence that contradicted the meaning

of our Sunday dinner and in vain we insisted on lighting

our oil lamps.

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ON THE DEATH OF A DAY OLD CHILD

All dead, day old children will welcome you.

The wind will sing my lullabies to you,

when the sun falls where the saddest grass grows.

You are the beginning when light is wise.

God will guard to the end of days your day,

In the land of manna, Eden of bread.

With ray and shade you will play pranks all day.

Autumn will teem with the brown of your eyes,

With my grief will forever weep the dew.

Menke Katz, Lithuania-USA (1906-1991)

ΓΙΑ ΤΟ ΘΑΝΑΤΟ ΤΟΥ ΜΙΑΣ ΜΕΡΑΣ ΜΩΡΟΥ

Όλοι νεκροί, μωρά μιας μέρας θα σας καλοσωρίσουν

ο αγέρας θα τραγουδήσει νανουρίσματα

όταν θα πέσει ο ήλιος και το γρασίδι θα ψηλώσει

είστε στην αρχή όταν το φως είναι σοφό

ο Θεός θα σας προστατεύει ως το τέλος των ημερών σας

στη χώρα του μάννα, Παράδεισο τροφής.

Θα παίξετε με τους ίσκιους και το φως όλη μέρα

το φθινόπωρο θα ταιριάξει στο χρώμα των ματιών σας

κι η πίκρα μου θα θρηνεί για πάντα με τη χλόη

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis