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(Written at the end of 1939 in Havana—with thoughts about Poland)
Our poor nest eternally atremble
in the wind.
What will happen now, in bloody storm,
mayn kind?
Now, in bloody storm . . . ?
The…
One day, during World War Two, a military chaplain arrived at our army camp in the Australian outback, to celebrate the Feast of Hanukkah with us and tell us about the wars of the Maccabees. Apart…
On the white garments of my great-grandfather
the cross of the middle ages flames anew.
My great-grandfather sits at the seder,
holding a staff from a wild almond tree
to rouse the forefathers.
Not…