To the Sun
Saul Tschernikovsky
1919
1
Hyacinth and mallow was I to God: lifelong
Only this pure sun fills, for each, the earth,
And an angel urges: “Bud, child, and bring forth
Among the biting thorns, your festive song.”
The damp field suckled me: the smell, so near,
Of crumbled clods, rose to my head: did he
Not have a father and a priest in the city
That he fetched me to be his…
Please login or register for free access to Posen Library
Already have an account?