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by Avraham Farber
Translated by Mira Eckhaus
The old prayer house goes up in flames, hit by plumes of smoke, shooting angry sparks.
The glory of the ancients. A bright tradition of grace
The fire eats everything, cuts the boards,
An ancient house of prayer, full of moans of contemplation,
Because your focus is our focus, we, the burnt ones,
Call the institutions of heaven, ask for our justice,
I will swim with spread out palms, in front of your ruins I will be speechless,
We don't have the strength to fight, we don't have the dagger,
An old prayer house |
(The author was born in Tel Aviv in 1937. He wrote the poem in 1960. As a child, he had heard stories in his parents' home about the town of Olkeniki and the old synagogue.) |
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