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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…
For my child, today, it is so easy
to make the awful discovery, that people kill
and are killed: both things and people
speak the language of the red angel.
My child asks me: Why are people being…
In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire,
Lanthorned in his oblique eyes, guttering burned!
His body lodged a rat where men nursed souls.
The world flashed grape-green eyes of a foiled cat
To him…
A. Leopold,
It would appear from your letter that you do not believe that art is a factor in civilization and progress. You are not the only one. One might agree with you that up to now no statue or…
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…
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…
Oded talked about the team, about the next day’s game. Surprised at Micky’s indifference, he suddenly stopped and looked at him closely. There was an insulted expression on his face, as if Micky had…