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When I observe a toothless ex-violinist,
with more hair than face, sprawled like Karl Marx
on a park seat or slumped, dead or asleep,
in the central heat of a public library
I think of Uncle Isidore…
May the language of truth be established forever, or as the poet …
Shlof, shlof, shlof,
Der tateh vet kumen in dorf,
Vet er brengn an epeleh,
Vet zayn gezunt dos kepele.
Sleep, sleep, sleep,
Daddy is traveling to the village,
He will bring back a little apple,
So…