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MY ANCESTORS SPEAK
- State University of New York Press
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12 ʨʣʲʸ ʭˋʨʹ ʯٷʮ ʭˋʨʹ ʯٷʮ : ʨʲʮˋʱ ʯʥʠ ʱʲʬʨˋ ʯʩʠ ʸʲʰʲʮ , ʯʣٷʦʫʩʩʬʡ ʯʥʠ ʢʰˋʬ ʸʲʮʩʰ˝ , ʹʬʧʸˋ˦ ' ʯ˝ʩʬ ʲʷʩʨʥʬʢ ʲʨ . ʯʨʰˋʩʬˌʴ ʲʨʬʲʢʸˋ˦ ʯʲʬʨʸʲʶ ʨʰʲʤ ʲʰʩʣ ʩʣ . ʨˌʢ ʨʩʮ ʨʫˋʰ ʸʲ˦ʩʨ ʯʩʠ ʯʣʲʸ ʩʩʦ . ʷʱʰˋʣ ʯʥ˦ ʯʥʠ ʷʱ˝ٷʬ ʯʥ˦ ʭʩʸʧʥʱ ʯʥʠ . ʰˋʬʡ ʯʨʲʷʰˋʮ ʲʷ . ʯʸˋʢʩʱ ʸʲʬʲʣʩʩʠ - ʪʩʥʸ . ʠʸʮʢ - ʯʶʩʥʥ . ʯʨʩʩʷʫʲʬ˦ʲʤ ʲʹʨٷʣ . ʨˋʮ ʯʥʠ ʢʥʬʷ ʦʩʠ ʷʩʬʡ ʸʲʣ , ʨˋʦʸʲʡʩʠ ʯʥʠ ʢʥʬʷ . ʯˋʣ - ʯʲʰˋʥʹʦ , ʨˌʢ ʯʥ˦ ʸʲʫʥʦ ʯʥʠ ʸʲʬʣʰʲʤ . ʸʥ˗ʩʹ ˋ , ʥʥʲʩʷ ʯʩʠ ʭʩʣʮʥʹʮ ʸˌ˝ ˋ . ʭˋʨʹ ʯٷʮ : ʨʸʩʶˋʡ ʯʶʲʢ ʩʥʥ ʯʲʩʥʸ˦ ʯʨʰˋʩʬʩʸʡ ʨʩʮ , ʸʲʫʩʨ ʲʹʩʷʸʲʨ ʯʥ˦ ʨʩʥʸ ʨʬʷʰʥʨʸˋ˦ , ʯʩʨˋʱ ʯʥ˦ ʯʣʬˌ˦ ʲʸʲʥʥʹ - ʲʣ - ʯˌʩʬ . ʲʡʸʲʥʥ ʲʷʩʣʰʲʰʩʩʥʥ ˋ ʦʩʠ ʡٷʬ ʱˌʣ ʸʲʡˌ , ʱʩʥʹ ʯʩʠ ʸʲʢʰʩ˦ ʩʣ ʯʲʮʥʬʡ ʲʰʲʷʥʸʨ ʩʥʥ ʸʲʡˌ , 13 MY ANCESTORS SPEAK My ancestors: Men in satin and velvet, faces long and silky pale, faintly glowing lips and thin hands caressing faded folios. Deep into the night they speak with God. Merchants from Leipzig and Danzig with clean cuffs, smoking fine cigars. Talmudic wit. German niceties. Their look is clever and lacklustre, clever and self-satisfied. Don Juans, dealers and seekers of God. A drunkard, a pair of converts in Kiev. My ancestors: Women bejewelled in diamonds like icons, darkly crimsoned by Turkish shawls, and heavy folds of Satin-de-Lyon. But their bodies are weeping willows, the fingers in their laps like withered flowers, 14 18 ʷʸˋʨʹ ʯʥʠ ʷʩʰʩʩʡʨʩʩʸʰ , ʪʲʬʢʲʥʥˋʡ ʯʥʠ , ʸʲʨʫʲʬʲʢ ʯʨʫٷʬ ʯʫʲʬʨʫˋʸˋ˦ ʯʨʩʮ , ʯʢٷʥʥʹ ʯʫʲʬʮʩʩʤʮʥʠ ʯʥʠ ʣʩʩʸ ʲʷʑ ʩʥʸ ʨʩʮ . ʦʩʥʤ ʯʲʮʲʸˌ ʯʥ˦ ʸʲʨʶʰʲ˦ ʭٷʡ ʨʫˋʰ ʸˋ˦ ʱʩʥʠ ʯʲʥʨˋʨʱ ʩʥʥ ʩʩʦ ʯʱʷˋʥʥ ʲʣ ʩʣ ʪʸʥʣ ʨʷʥʶ ʱʲ ʯʥʠ ʯʢʩʥʠ ʲʣʰʲʸʲʮ ʨʱʥʬ ʲʮˋʦʩʥʸʢ . ʸˌ˝ ˋ ʯʥʠ , ʪʩʦ ʭʲʹ ʪʩʠ ʲʫʬʲʥʥ ʨʩʮ . ʲʬˋ ʩʩʦ , ʭˋʨʹ ʯٷʮ , ʨʥʬʡ ʯٷʮ ʯʥ˦ ʨʥʬʡ ʭˋʬ˦ ʯٷʮ ʯʥ˦ ʭˋʬ˦ ʯʥʠ , ʨʹʩʮʲʢʱʩʥʠ ʷʩʣʲʡʲʬ ʯʥʠ ʨʩʥʨ , ʷʩʸʲʩʥʸʨ , ʱʩʥʸʢ ʯʥʠ ʷʱʲʨˌʸʢ ʦʩʥʤ ʬʷʰʥʨ ˋ ʪʸʥʣ ʩʥʥ ʸʩʮ ʪʸʥʣ ʯʲʬ˝ʮˋʸʨ . ʢˌʬʷ ʯʥʠ ʺʥʬʬʷ ʯʥʠ ʺʥʬʩ˦ˢ ʨʩʮ ʯʲʬ˝ʮˋʸʨ , ʷˌʬʢ ʭʲʰʸʲ˝ʥʷ ˋ ʩʥʥ ʵʸˋʤ ʯٷʮ ʯʲʬʱʩʩʸʨ , ʢʰʥʶ ʯٷʮ ʪʩʦ ʨ˦ʸˋʥʥ ʱʲ , ʬʥʷ ʯٷʮ ʨʩʰ ʯʲʷʸʲʣ ʪʩʠ — ʨʣʲʸ ʭˋʨʹ ʯٷʮ . ʯʢʩʥʠ ʲʨʸʲʩʩʬʹʸˋ˦ ʲʷʬʲʥʥ ʩʣ ʯʩʠ ʯʥʠ ʨʱʥʬ ʲʨʩʥʨ . ʣʰˋʸʢ ʯʥʠ - ʨʰʥʥٷʬ ʯʩʠ ʯʥʠ ʵʩʶ ʯʩʠ ʯʲʮˋʣ , 15 and in their faded, veiled eyes lifeless desire. Grand ladies in calico and linen, broad-boned, strong and agile, with their contemptuous, easy laughter, with calm talk and uneasy silence. At dusk, by the window of the humble house they sprout like statues. And coursing through their dusky eyes cruel desire. And a pair I am ashamed of. All of them, my ancestors, blood of my blood, flame of my flame, dead and living mixed together, sad, grotesque, immense. They trample through me as through a dark house. Trampling with prayers, and curses, and wailing, rattling my heart like a copper bell, my tongue quivers, I don’t know my own voice— My ancestors speak. ...