My Californian Sukkah down below is filled with youthful voices,
while I up here watch shimmering olive leaves and lie
basking in diaspora sun
reading about my grandfathers:
prisoners of the Pale, the pious,
Cabbalists, Maskilim, Bundists,
Capitalists, Zionists, dreamers,
Kibbutzniks, fighters, well-diggers,
wishful-thinkers.
My sons and daughters downstairs with their eager voices
approach my impasse as I must have done,
as once my grandparents set their sights on Zion,
forsaking history and prayer, taking up arms and hoes,
tools of head and hand,
purse and persuasion, hearts hardened to their foes,
with Jews’ determination,
calling it miracles.
LRH
10.9.06 Ch. H’M Sukkot.
What an interesting family, which you have aptly portrayed. It seems like we are each only a creation of what we have done moment by moment, but also, we encompass all that our forefathers have done in their time, whether we realize it (as you do) or not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Seizing freedom carries a great cost with it - especially leave behind a measure of our tradition that seems so indispensible. The courage of our ancestors is humbling.