By Moishe Bernshtein


In my poor house  where I deployed my dreams 

That climbed on naked walls lime colored 

On sacred books and spread names  

By the light of the lamp which is lit in a corner. 


Childhood dreams don't know of limits 

Far, far  took me like a horseman 

And when the road was unknown 

A hidden tremor caught me


In my poor house at  light and at darkness 

Each corner had its meaning 

Although playing I forgot all as every boy 

And a hidden tremor accompanied my soul 


In my poor house were intoned songs 

Of many workers of mom's sewing shop  

That pleasure penetrated in my life 

I always feel it, I feel it as it were new.


In early dawns bowed on a sacred book

     my father intoned a melody 

He never revealed me the secret of the melody 

He rocked me with the melody in a secret world 

That nested in me with a lament. 


In my poor house were told wonderful stories 

Were told by neighbors with  "Chasidic" ecstasy 

Together and separate, they accompany me in my wandering 

As echoes that arrive from the distance

    as "balalaikas" sounds


My poor house was rich on Saturdays and during festivities 

On the Sabbath table the chandeliers shone like crowns 

Dad's songs, mom's prayers, the story of

    "Sarah daughter of good people"  

They didn't get lost, I feel them today. 


Poor house was my poor house, where a

    simple orchard flourished 

I liked thinking & resting were my dreams were sinking 

My dear poor house that I keep with love in my memory 

I go drunk in the life, drunk by your good wine.