ONE-RHYME SONNET ON THE MUTABILITY OF HUMAN FAITH
Muni Ben-Ami (1876-1942)
Adapted from the Hebrew (Micah) and the Yiddish (Muni Ben-Ami) by A. H. H. Lipscombe
Alas! I am a harvester of dying fruit,
A drinker of the dregs of bitter wine,
When nothing springs from the land to eat. . . .
The good have left our holy earth;
Not one saint clings to the altar horns.
A bloodthirsty remnant slaughters its own,
And even the young poison their begetters.
—Micah 7:1-2
Through unending wastes of heat-buckled clay,
We pilgrims stagger on our dire way.
We grub up raw roots and choke down cracked hay,
Petition old landlords, and sometimes slay
Their run-amok chickens, which every curst day
We rend in secret or in starved fury flay
To red gobs, then bend to God, our hearts a-splay,
And with ash-coated tongues pretend to pray.
Like penury, greed, or that pus-oozing stray,
Hunger—whate’er we do—dyes our eyes gray;
It sweeps our taut guts like a hot soldiers’ bay
Emptied of tenants by their own lethal play.
Walking each wadi, struck numb with dismay,
Here plod we pilgrims on our dire way.