The Three Little Goldfish

They died—the three little goldfishin the jar.When the morning paintedthe glass walls with blueand the sun dipped the window in red,the three little goldfishlay on the palm of the water—dead.

And this is the fault of the woman.A shame to repeat,not what she did,but what she did not.Namely, she forgotabout the golden mischievous fish.Neither todaynorthe day before did she give them fresh wateror crumbs for their foodas she should.

No wonder then thatshe seeks now in vainthe golden train of joythat used to reign in the house,and tears like small balloonsroll from her eyesdown the cheeks of her faceonto the lace of her blouseand into the jar.Yes, she cries.

And this is the faultof her husband. Indeed,a shame to repeatnot what he did,but what he did not.Namely, he forgotto kiss her good-byeand came home so latethat the nightcould not waitand painted the windowwith gray.No wonder then thatshe was afraid when he camethat he had left his hearton the other side of the door.Forhe had not kissed her today,nor the day before.

The baby in its crib,sleep washed from its eyes,smiles, its eyelashes dipped in the sky.And the woman?She counts her tears,like lost sheepas they dripfrom her blouse's laceinto the water—And she sees the golden endin the faceof the mirror-like bottom.

• דרײַ גאָלדענע פֿישעלעך
• חוה ראָזענפֿאַרב