The Glow Of The Evening

The glow of the evening is fading,
To a pale strip above the wood blending,
His fiddle my father is playing,
A mournful Hasidic lamenting.

He is drawing the bow with such yearning,
He stares at the cupboard quite plainly,
The broken panes have been stuffed firmly
With rags, where the darkness comes straining.

Eager for noodles, they gather,
The little ones, by the stoves huddles,
‘Quieter there, you’, exclaims father,
‘Lolik, are you looking for trouble?’

And mother, as in a cave buried,
From a corner her own edict phrases:
‘Supper is still not quite ready,
Sit down, you imps, in your places!’

Dry rot ate the floor up completely,
To stamp on it won’t be thought clever,
Today I’ve no ink to write neatly,
I’ll pencil my poems, however.

Z. Biadula 1912