Ons Erfdeel. Jaargang 18

yiddish

My father sang the songs
(which his mother used to sing)
for me, who half understood them.

I sing the same words again;
nostalgia flaps in my throat,
nostalgia for what I have.

Sing for my children
what I don't understand myself,
so that they later... Later?

Before the roses are faded
we drink the flowers' water.

Sad, intimate language,
I'm sorry that you withered
in this head.
It no longer needs you
but it does miss you.