Birds are dozing on the branches.
Sleep my dear little one.
At your crib on an old wooden bench,
a stranger sings to you.
Lyu-lyu, lyu-lyu, lyu.
There was a time when your crib
was woven out of happiness.
But now your mother, oh, your mother,
will never return.
Lyu-lyu, lyu-lyu, lyu.
I have seen your father running,
under a hail of stones
and his far and lonely wail
flew over the fields.
Lyu-lyu, lyu-lyu, lyu.
door Leah Rudnicki
vertaald door Dina Suller-NKdeE Vertaaldienst
tekstbron: NeoHasidic.org
opgenomen in WEEKBLADEN #51 - rotzooi, rasters en rintels
vertaling: Dremlen feygl vertaald door Dina Suller-NKdeE Vertaaldienst
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