ICH GEJ DURCH MAJNE GEßELECH ICH GEH DURCH MEINE GASSEN
Schoschana Rabinovici trans. J.D.McClure (into English, from Scots)


Alang the gaits I reenge,
Aa roun it's lown an quate.
Tae me they're aa sae strange:
In dreid I goam about.
Whaur's aa my freins eenou?
Whaur nou dae they bide?
Whit wey war they taen awa?
Fair it gars me dreid.
I gae, my hert aye greetin,
tho I canna drap a tear:
throu aa my days o leivin
nae mair I'll finn o cheer.
throu aa my days o leivin
nae mair o seil I'll finn
I'll mak a wab o freedom:
quaetlins my pyne I'll spin.
Ne'er will I loss the mynin
O thon meinit fell wi dreid:
e'en gin I soud be blythesome
an the passin days is guid,
forenenst my benmaist een
bides thon frichtsome pictur still,
an my hert in tears braks doun
an the sabs come fell an shill.
an gin I think tae fleme
awa thon scene sae frichtsome
aye back tae me 't wull come,
mair laithlie an mair gruesome.
Aye back tae me it wins
In shape sae frichtsome still,
an whan awa it dwynes
it hesna growen auld.
An still it bides sae near me
an gars my hert bleed aye,
an I goam on aa afore me
but ony saul nor jye.
For aa my teen an grame
hes smush't aa thon tae nocht:
for me, nae mair a leam:
for me, jist pitmirk nicht.


Along the roads I wander,
All around itís peaceful and quiet.
To me theyíre all so strange:
In dread I gaze about.
Where are all my friends now?
Where do they live now?
Why were they taken away?
It makes me really afraid.
I go, my heart always weeping,
though I canít drop a tear:
through all my days of living
nothing more Iíll find of comfort.
through all my days of living
nothing more Iíll find of peace.
Iíll make a web o freedom:
quietly Iíll spin my sorrow.
Never will I lose the memory
Of that minute deadly with terror:
even if I should be cheerful
and the passing days are good,
in front of my innermost eyes
that fearful picture still remains,
and my heart breaks down in tears
and the sobs come fierce and shrill,
and if I think of driving
away that scene so fearful,
always it will come back to me,
more loathsome and more hideous.
Always it comes back to me,
In shape so fearful still,
and when it fades away
it hasnít grown old.
And still it stays so near me
and makes my heart bleed always,
and I gaze on all before me
with neither courage nor joy,
For all my sorrow and rage
have crushed all that to nothing:
for me, not a gleam any more:
for me, only pitch-black night.

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