The leaves are trembling as before a storm.
All of them will fall, but later on.
Earliest shudderings stipple the white
page already piecemeal into air-
absorbed, clean gone.
Summer is done. The white
page might almost never have been there
but for this surface offered you to write .
Yankey Glatshteyn
MOYSHE·LEYB'S VOICE
(1932)
I
In Tarshish stands a gilded cage .
In the cage sits a pipsqueak and gives everyone the finger.
He eats carrot
tsimmes ,
stewed plums , and snuffles a tune–
Eagle-bagged, livesolong, I'm Hotsmakh-Tsingitang.
Night descends in gilded glory.
(How I wish you could see a Tarshish night)
But the puny Jew in the gilded cage
Turns a somersault and gives everyone the finger.
He eats maize ,
latkes ,
pancakes, chopped liver,
And snorts a melody :
Eagle-bagged , livesolong, I'm Hotsmakh-Tsingitang.
And when the Tarshish roofs are crowned with stars,
Night spins a sleep-web around the singing pipsqueak.
Then comes a princess the size of a hand
And tickles the puny Jew where it's needed with a fan of singing,
The sleeping Hotsmakh-Tsingitang.
