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Poems Benjamin Fondane
Poems Benjamin Fondane
1943
Over There
They all left for America.
First was the son
(damn fate! They were too many
for the old tune)
then the little sister who could sew,
who had a pair
of worn millstones for lungs
grinding the air.
Then life went on a spell, not taking
another one;
at last they put everything on the Ark,
and soon were done
preparing their departure: grandparents,
the stove-pot, bags
packed with last of their garlicpungent rags.
Only the ancestors (what to do?)
would have to stay
in a land that wasn't theirs, blessing
Saturday.
From time to time, an errant scrap
of letter bore
shipwrecks, baptisms, a postscript: Soon
we may touch shore...
Then silence. For the dead was held
the ceremony
according to the Law, and the land's
monotony.
Time strung and unstrung his bow
turning around
and the house crumbled like a boat
that's run aground.
The bricks went missing one by one,
the roof the same;
they were busy building in Heavenly
Jerusalem.
But the melancholy grass
in the yard still dreamed
of postmarks from America
1944