by Moishe Broderzon

They sing they sing still
beautiful songs
In their leaflets, books
and journals.
They still sing of god,
of sun and radiance,
of human love
and brotherhood.

How can they?
how dare they,
speak such pure
clear words,
when gloom rules strong
in all their darkened places,
and every spark of love
there is extinguished?

How can they?
How dare a person sing
in such a concert
of wailing lamentation?
of barking
and jackals howling. —
How can the tender lyre
be sounded there?

And they still sing
such lovely songs
of pious sighs
and much longing,
they sing of giving
and donating,

of sacrificing from heart
for human brothers.

Oh, people, people,
secretive people,
you are the greatest
in history.
You speak of the great scholars,
Kant and ________,
and wave your whips around
around like Cossaks.

You look to the sky
and count the stars:
and sit and dream
under the moon–
and still you are
the greatest danger in the world,
a black forest
with bears in millions…

How beautifully they can
sing love, bless,
these poets,
in their pages.
and these same writers,
Oh horror!
How profound
their hate for people.

In the same woods
where devine accord
of heart and soul
sound so sweet

the angry bigots run around,
wanting to kill
all in the entire world,
whom they despise!

We stand before a giant,
dark creature
Who can understand this
blonde beast?
how beautiful is her surface
in ascent.
How devlish ugly
is her mean descent.

We stand confused
before this puzzling situation.
And are siezed by horror, oh,
when I consider,
how severe the punishment will be
for your crimes,
on that day of reckoning
for each and every one…