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At
the Grave of Joseph Trumpeldor
by Bertram Joseph
Standing beside this monument to him who gave
His heart’s blood that some day we might be standing here,
What must we think we all unworthy ones, privileged
To view this statue of a lion? Lion’s strength
And human strength together molded into one.
Heart of a lion and soul of a man of men.
One arm you lost in battle, but the other arm
Did more than double duty in those darkest days
When Jewry’s dying brothers faced a government
That stabbed us with a smile; a dry parched thirsty soil;
Neighbors who knew how to destroy, not to create.
Hostile the government, hostile the soil, hostile
The neighbors, but the ugliest stab of all, to know
That even our own were hostile. Death with horror.
Hardships bring forth the best within the man, and where
No hardships lie, then little good will ever come.
How can I, born in the land of plenty, even
Equal your devotion to the cause of causes?
"How good that I should die for my own native land."
You who would never rest in life, take now your rest.
The ring of steel is smashed, the shut doors are flung open.
Now we have learned your lesson, for in your time
We came only a few, while now the few alive
Flock to the shores of Israel bleeding and broken.
If only time’s events could be reversed!
Israel
If all the seashore grains of sand were counted,
And every smallest grain placed end to end,
And if the sum of all the sands amounted
To more than human sense could comprehend,
Then would you know the length of Israel’s span,
From one eternity into another,
Israel, the thread of G-d that runs through Man,
Whom not the brute-in-Man could ever smother.
When flowered this holy nation on its soil,
The laws of justice to the world were given.
Israel dispersed began the searching toil
To reconcile the laws of Earth and Heaven.
The world must give the honor due each part,
The second for the mind; the first, the heart.
Good Times Publishing Company, Jerusalem, 1993
From Songs of Zion
the Beautiful
by Yehuda Amichai
translated by Chana Bloch |
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On the last words of Trumpeldor,
It is good to die for our country, they built
the new homeland, like hornets in crazy nests.
And even if those were not his exact words,
or he never said them, or if he did and they drifted away,
they are still there, vaulted like a cave. The cement
has gotten harder than stone. This is my homeland
where I can dream without stumbling,
do bad deeds without being lost,
leave my wife without feeling lonely,
cry without shame, lie and betray
without going to hell for it.
This is the land we covered with field and forest
but we had no time to cover our faces
so they are naked in the grimace of sorrow and the ugliness of joy.
This is the land whose dead lie in the ground
instead of coal and iron and gold:
they are fuel for the coming of messiahs.
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