Your fathers enjoyed things,
your fathers got their hearts broken too.
They were young, they were small,
they were cared for by their parents,
they saw the snow in the city
for the first time and wondered.
They found themselves suddenly big
and wondered where chldhood
had gone like clothes outgrown,
They found the world suddenly difficult
and wondered where Magic had gone,
and the shock was so painful they decided
to forget there ever was such a thing as Magic.
In their hearts now are horses and carts
and snowy streets from fifty years ago,
Chagall expressed such memories,
but they don't know how.
Your fathers lingered in a small world just like you
Fifteen years to find it gone like water left in the sun.
They sipped and dawdled the morning
only to find all at once, harsh afternoon light.
Your fathers' fathers were a world of mist and green,
a primeval world rising out of non-being for your fathers,
a world they kissed goodbye,
as you will kiss your fathers goodbye
and your son will kiss you.
Fathers who rise on one horizon and set on another,
that is all we ever have,
and we are forever saying goodbye,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem