De Israëlische Hebreeuwse en Jiddische dichter en politicus Uri Zvi Greenberg werd geboren op 22 september 1896 in Bialikamin, Lviv, in Galicië, destijds behorend tot Oostenrijk-Hongarije. Zie ook alle tags voor Uri Zvi Greenberg op dit blog.
One Truth and Not Two
Your Rabbis taught: A land is bought with money
You buy the land and work it with a hoe.
And I say: A land is not bought with money
And with a hoe you also dig and bury the dead.
And I say: A land is conquered with blood.
And only when conquered with blood is hallowed to the people
With the holiness of the blood.
And only one who follows after the cannon in the field,
Thus wins the right to follow after his good plow
On this, the field that was conquered.
And only such a field gives nourishing and healthy bread
And the house which arises on its hill is truly a fortress and a temple,
Because in this field there is honorable blood.
Your Rabbis taught: The messiah will come in future generations:
And Judea will arise without fire and without blood.
It will arise with every tree, with every additional house.
And I say: If your generation will be slow
And will not grasp in its hands and forcibly mold its future
And in fire will not come with the Shield of David
And in blood will not come with its horses saddled –
The Messiah will not come even in a far off generation.
Judea will not arise.
And you will be living slaves to every foreign ruler.
Your houses will be straw for the sparks of every wicked one.
And your trees will be cut down with their ripe fruit.
And a man will react the same as a babe
To the sword of the enemy –
And only your ramblings will remain – yours…
And your statue, an eternal curse.
Your Rabbis taught: There is one truth for the nations:
Blood for blood – but it is not a truth for Jews.
And I say: There is one truth and not two.
As there is one sun and as there are not two Jerusalems.
It was written in the Law of Conquest of Moses and Joshua
Until the last of my kings and my traitors have consumed.
And there will be a day when from the river of Egypt until the Euphrates
And from the sea until the mountain passes of Moav my boys will go up
And they will call my enemies and my haters to the last battle.
And the blood will decide: Who is the only ruler here.
Vertaald door Laurence Cramer
Uri Zvi Greenberg (22 september 1896 – 8 mei 1981)
Uit: Winter Solstice
“When these friends departed, they needed reassurance: “You’re all right, aren’t you, Elfrida?” they would ask. “No regrets? You don’t want to come back to London? You’re happy?” And she had been able to set their minds at rest. “Of course I am. This is my geriatric bolt-hole. This is where I shall spend the twilight of my years.”
So, by now, there was a comfortable familiarity about it all. She knew who lived in this house, in that cottage. People called her by her name. “Morning, Elfrida,” or “Lovely day, Mrs. Phipps.” Some of the inhabitants were commuting families, the man of the house setting out early each morning to catch the fast train to London and returning late in the evening to pick up his car from the station park and drive the short distance home. Others had lived here all their lives in small stone houses that had belonged to their fathers and their grandfathers before that. Still others were new altogether, inhabiting the council estates that ringed the village, and employed by the electronics factory in the neighbouring town. It was all very ordinary, and so, undemanding. Just, in fact, what Elfrida needed.
Walking, she passed the pub, newly furbished and now called the Dibton Coachhouse. There were wrought-iron signs and a spacious car-park. Farther on, she passed the church, with its yew trees and lych-gate, and a notice-board fluttering with parish news. A guitar concert, an outing for the Mothers and Toddlers group. In the churchyard, a man lit a bonfire and the air was sweet with the scent of toasting leaves. Overhead, rooks cawed. A cat sat on one of the churchyard gate posts, but luckily Horace did not notice him.”
Rosamunde Pilcher (Lelant, 22 september 1924)
Sah ich sieben Segel
mittenmang im Mutt.
Junge, in die sieben
muß ich mich verlieben.
Ob ich es wohl könne,
hat sie mich gefragt,
ihr das Schuhband lösen
mit den siebzehn Ösen.
blieb verdimmich stecken
mittenmang im Schlick.
Mädchen, nimm dein Hemde,
denn es kommen Fremde!
Hans Leip (22 september 1893 – 6 juni 1983)
Zelfportret met vogel, 1956
Grosser Gott, in dieser Pracht
Seh’ ich deine Wunder-Macht
Aus vergnügter Seelen an.
Es gereiche Dir zu Ehren,
Daß ich sehen, daß ich hören,
Fülen, schmecken, riechen kann!
Zierde der Erden,
Augen, die deine
Müßten vor Anmut erstaunet
Daß dich ein göttlicher
Die Welt ist allezeit schön
Im Frühling prangt die schöne Welt
In einem fast Smaragden Schein.
Im Sommer gläntzt das reife Feld,
Und scheint dem Golde gleich zu seyn.
Im Herbste sieht man, als Opalen,
Der Bäume bunte Blätter strahlen.
Im Winter schmückt ein Schein, wie Diamant
Und reines Silber, Fluth und Land.
Ja kurtz, wenn wir die Welt aufmercksam sehn,
Ist sie zu allen Zeit schön.
Barthold Heinrich Brockes (22 september 1680 – 16 januari 1747)
Portret door Balthasar Denner