God Hid His Face
Selected Poems of RAJZEL ZYCHLINSKY
 
My Clocks

The hands of my clock 
that does not run 
show eternity.

The hands of my clock 
that runs 
remind me of my mortality.

In the evenings, 
when the walls grow dark 
and my clocks grow dark, 
I look up into the sky 
to the stars.

The hands of the Great Bear,
the hands of the Little Bear, 
both lead home 
to the bright light 
of Polaris.
 

Translated by Barnett Zumoff 

Back to library

Back to
Back to Shtetl