Remembrance
By Daliah Hertz
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
In the heat of the day the cab stopped at the third house's doorway.
Green trees which the noon glow had purpled suddenly got young.
From the door of the laundromat across the street, a man younger than him emerged
Hunched on his crutch.
A white cloth network fluttered out from the upper balconies:
A light cloud-weaving.
Monday.
The second day.
Drivers clench the wheel when they happen by here.
Newspaper women with sunglass-encased faces
Clasp in their pinkish Euro-fingers
Gossip's glistening heart,
Staring through their windshields
At the death of a cat.
Yiddish men and women, hamstrung to the lower floors
On the porches of cash-keyed flats
At the cashed entrances of those narrow, whitewashed, residential palaces
With framed pictures of those dear bygone few,
Stare in sadness, as if at themselves,
At a final day.
In a garbled scribble, a doctor's script,
Gentle instructions are set forth.
That which is known was said in a whisper.
Another day, another two.
Another month,
And you will be here no more.
The Original:
By Daliah Hertz
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
In the heat of the day the cab stopped at the third house's doorway.
Green trees which the noon glow had purpled suddenly got young.
From the door of the laundromat across the street, a man younger than him emerged
Hunched on his crutch.
A white cloth network fluttered out from the upper balconies:
A light cloud-weaving.
Monday.
The second day.
Drivers clench the wheel when they happen by here.
Newspaper women with sunglass-encased faces
Clasp in their pinkish Euro-fingers
Gossip's glistening heart,
Staring through their windshields
At the death of a cat.
Yiddish men and women, hamstrung to the lower floors
On the porches of cash-keyed flats
At the cashed entrances of those narrow, whitewashed, residential palaces
With framed pictures of those dear bygone few,
Stare in sadness, as if at themselves,
At a final day.
In a garbled scribble, a doctor's script,
Gentle instructions are set forth.
That which is known was said in a whisper.
Another day, another two.
Another month,
And you will be here no more.
The Original:
זיכרון
דליה הרץ
כחום היום נעצרה המונית מול פתח הביית השלישי.
עצים ירוקים, ורדרדים מינוגה הצהריים, הצעירו פיתאום.
מדלת המיכבסה ממול, יצא איש צעיר ממנו,
כפוף על מקלו.
רשת הביגוד הלבן נתעופפה מן הגזוזתראות העליונות:
מסכת עננים קלה.
יום שני.
עצבניים הם הנהגים הנקלעים לכאן.
נשים עיתונאיות במישקפי–שמש סוגרות על פניהן,
מחזיקות בין אצבעותיהן האירופאיות, האדמדמות,
את לב הרכילות הזוהר,
משקיפות דרך זגוגית המכונית הקידמית–
על מותו של חתול.
אידישאים, אידישאיות, בקומות התחתונות,
במרפסות הקטנות של דירות דמי–המפתח
בפתח ארמונות המגורים הצרים שסוידו בלבן
וביתמונות מתי–המעט
משקיפים, משקיפות בעצב, כמי שרואים את עצמם
ביום אחרון.
בכתב–יד מעורב, כתב רופא
נרשמות הוראות עדינות.
מה שידוע, נאמר בלחש.
עוד יום. עוד יומיים.
עוד חודש.
ואינך פה.
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