The Lead Plates Of The Rom Printers Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

Like fingers stretched out through the bars in the night
To catch the free light of the air that is shed —
We sneak in the dark to grab up, as in spite,
The Rom printing plates, with old wisdom inbred.
We dreamers now have to be soldiers and fight
And melt into bullets the soul of the lead.

And now, once again we broke open the seal
Of a strangely familiar, a timeless dark cave.
And armored in shadows, with candles concealed,
We poured out the letters — in lead lines engraved.
Thus did, in the Temple, our forefathers wield
The golden menorahs, poured in oil that was saved.

Liquid lead brightly shining in bullets so fine,
Ancient thoughts — in the letters that melted hot.
A line from Babylonia, from Poland a line,
Boiled, flooded together, in the foundry pot.
Jewish valor, hidden in word and in sign,
Must now explode the whole world with a shot!

And he who saw Jewish youth in their prime
Clutching the weapons in ghetto halls —
He saw the last struggle of Yerushalayim,
The heroic fall of those granite walls;
Took in the words, poured in lead, out of time,
And heard in his heart: their ancient voice calls.

Vilna Ghetto, September 12, 1943