Poem from Dorem Afrike

By Bunim-Idel Kril

Translated by Nathan Snyder

Tselem ben (fun zayn literarishn izavon)

Di geshtalt fun mame Rahels ben-- 

Gehodevet in varemkayt fun muters shoys,

Ongezoygn mit milkh tsu zat fun ire brist 

Un dertsoygn mit der libshaft fun zayn tate-mamen—

In koved un in voylzayn,

Iz shoyn yests dervaksn, rayf gevorn

Vi a rayfer zang, vos tsaytikt oyf di felder

Inem onkum funem zatn harbst.

Knent atsind fun geln, vaykhn leym di mame Rahel.

Der groyser kinstler ir tselem ben

Un furemt zorgevik mit inerlekhn tsiter

Ir getlekhn geshtalt

Zi glet dos leym. Zayn glatkayt brengt zi

Sheferish aroys mit ire filevdike

Zi farkaylekht yedn kneytsh un yedn boyg,

Zi kritst di enlekhkayt mit genoyer pintlekhkayt

In leymendikn toyg un gist arayn di varemkayt

Fun ir neshome aygener in ir geknot

Der groyser mayster iz farton mit dem farmest,

Mit der arbet hayliker tsu shafn a geshtalt

Fun nayem getlekhn geburt, vos trogt in zikh

Di gantse hevle ledah fun yetsiro

U s-filt di mame Rahel di onrekung fun geyst,

Di lekhtsung durshtike nokh der groyser shefa

Fun nayem monument, fun tselem ben

Gist di mame Rahel nokhanand dos leym,

Vos vert farhatevet un fartik

Tsu furemen, tsu kritsn un tsu shleyfn

Un funem homer hert zi mitamol,

Vi s'redt aroys a shtim:

"O, mame mayne, ikh dayn tselm ben, mikh hostu fun dos nay

Geshtaltikt un bashafn 

Un host mikh tsugefirt tsum shvel fun undzer hoyz 

Fun mentshisher barayung...

Zayn ponim likhtiker tshtralt fun noenter geulo,

Es falt a shverer lok oyf zayn farbroyntn shtern

Di mame Rahel kelpt un maystrt un farendikt

Shoyn bald dem monument fun freyheyt un bafrayung,

Vos zi hot mit der hilf fun ire sheferishe

Un mitn oyfbroyz fun ire tsapldikn harts

Arayngeton in kaltn, zshaverdikn leyn

Fun velkhen zi hot yetst mit vaytok oysgeknotn

Dem aybikn derlayzer, ir zun--dem tselem ben 

The image of the son:  from his literary remains.

The image of mother Rachel's son

Brought up in the warmth of his mother's breast

Weaned with milk to fullness from her breasts

And brought up with the love of his father-mother--

In honor and comfort

Is already grown up, come of age

Like a ripe ear of corn, which matures in the fields

In the time of the arrival of full fall.

Mother Rachel kneads now from soft yellow clay

The great artist her image of the son

And forms caringly with inner tremor

Her godly image

She caresses the clay. She brings out its smoothness

finger creatively with her obedient fingers.

She rounds off each crease and each bend,

She scratches the resemblance with preciseness

in the clay dough and pours in the warmth

from her own soul in her kneading.

The great master is caught up in the contest

with the holy work to create an image

From the new godly birth, which bears in it

the entire birth pangs of Creation.

And mother Rachel feels the creeping up of spirit,

the thirsty yearning for the great emanation

From the new monument, from the image of the son

Mother Rachel pours again the clay,

which hardens and is complete

to form, to scratch and to polish

and from the material she hears at times,

as if a voice is talking out:

"O, my mother, I am your image of a son, you have newly

fomed and created

And you have brought me to the threshold of our house

of human freedom

His face is shining light up with the close redemption,

There falls a heavy lock (of hair) on his tanned forehead.

Mother Rachel glues and forms and finishes

the monument from freedom and making free,

finger which she has with the help of her creative fingers

and with the spurt of her jerking heart--

put into the cold, rusty clay

from which she has now with pain kneaded out

the eternal redeemer, her son--the image of the son