This night is irredeemable.
Where you are, it is still bright.
At the gates of Jerusalem,
a black sun is alight.

The yellow sun is hurting,
sleep, baby, sleep.
The Jews in the Temple’s burning
buried my mother deep.

Without rabbi, without blessing,
over her ashes, there,
the Jews in the Temple’s burning
chanted the prayer.

Over this mother,
Israel’s voice was sung.
I woke in a glittering cradle,
lit by a black sun.

Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938) I wonder what poem he would write for Gaza?

As Ramadan 2024 coms to an end, a Palestinian girl visits a family grave.: “But we, with a funeral song bringing home the dead …”