| Versione inglese |
ZING, MAYN FIDELE (BERLIN 1990) | SING, MY FIDDLE (BERLIN 1990) |
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Kh'ob geshpilt do in Daytshland shoyn eftere mol, | I've played here in Germany many's the time, |
Hamavdil, hamavdil beyn koydesh lekhol, | He who divides the sacred from the worldly, |
Nor ikh shver bay mayn muze, to hert vos ikh zing, | But I swear by my muse, mark well what I sing, |
Az keyn mol iz mir geven laykht do, un gring. | That not once has it been easy to be here. |
Ikh ze aykh bay nakht in farreykherte knaypyes | I see you at night in smoky hangouts, |
Reydndik yungitshke reyd funem haynt, | Talking youthful talk of today |
Kh'halt shtark fun mayn yikhes, Nor kh'bin aykh mekane, | I'm proud of my heritage, yet I envy you, |
Ir, hayntike kinder fun nekhtikn faynt. | today's children of yesterday's enemy, |
Vayl aykh iz di tsukunft, Eyn land un eyn shprakh | Because yours is the future, one land and one language, |
Bes mir haltn shtumerhayt do... | while we are left here, speechless... |
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... Dem nekhtns a viderkol tomid faran, | ... Yesterday's echo forever at hand, |
Zikhroyne levrokhe: bay itlekhn shpan, | Of blessed memory at every turn. |
Nor nokh alts, oy, farbindn zikh, undzere tsvey felker, | Yet something still draws together, our two peoples; |
A farbotene libe, fun reshoim geshtert, | A forbidden love, disrupted by evildoers, |
Tsi libe, tsi sine, zi hersht vi bashert, | Be it love or hate, it is as if fated, |
Farsholtn fun mentsh un fun boyre. | Cursed by human beings and the Creator. |
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To zing, mayn fidele, shpil, mayn fidele | So sing, my fiddle, Play, my fiddle, |
Vi frier hot nit geshilt keyner | Like no one who has played before. |
Un shpil mir tsu a sheyn goles-lidl | And play me a sweet Diaspora song, |
Mit a benkshaft a reyner. | With a longing that's pure. |
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Kh'ob shtendik in zinen di eygene yikhes, | My own heritage is ever on my mind |
Afile baym valgern in loytern atsind, | Even as I traverse the bright present, |
Vayl ven nisht di milkhomes, pogromen, retsikhes | Because if not for the wars, Pogroms, slaughter, |
Volt ikh oykhet gevezn Eyropes a kind. | I too would have been Europe's progeny. |
S'iz shoyn undzer a velt, do fargangen in flamen, | Our world has already gone done in flames here, |
Opgezundert di tsvaygn fun yidishn boym, | Branches severed from the Jewish tree, |
Nor nokh a mol boyt men uf moyern, tsamen, | Yet again walls and fences are being built, |
Faryogn di, nebekh, vos zukhn a heym. | And you persecute those poor souls seeking a home. |
Af s'nay traybt ir yene avek fun di tirn, | You drive them anew from your gates, |
Me yogt zay shoyn vider durkh nekht fun krishtal | Hunting them through nights of broken glass. |
Oy, vos far a khutspe, azoy zikh tsu firn, | What chutzpa you have to act like that -- |
Mir zoln in aykh den tsuzetsn di gal? | Are we supposed to forgive you? |
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Ir frest uf shoyn vider di eygene kinder, | Again you devour your own children, |
Far merder ir makht zay, far blutike hint, | Turning them into murderers, bloodthirsty dogs. |
Un zayere retsikhes kukt ir on vi blinde, | Then turning a blind eye to their crimes |
Biz gants Eyrope iz vey un iz vind. | Until all of Europe has been laid waste. . . |
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To zing, mayn fidele, shpil, mayn fidele | So sing, my fiddle, Play, my fiddle, |
Vi frier hot nit geshilt keyner | Like no one who has played before. |
Un shpil mir tsu a sheyn goles-lidl | And play me a sweet Diaspora song, |
Mit a benkshaft a reyner. | With a longing that's pure. |