https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUGDhkwZlVI
משירי ארץ אהבתי
לאה גולדברג, 1951
א
מְכוֹרָה שֶׁלִּי, אֶרֶץ-נוֹי אֶבְיוֹנָה –
לַמַּלְכָּה אֵין בַּיִת, לַמֶּלֶךְ אֵין כֶּתֶר.
וְשִׁבְעָה יָמִים אָבִיב בְּשָׁנָה
וְסַגְרִיר וּגְשָׁמִים כָּל הַיֶּתֶר.
אַךְ שִׁבְעָה יָמִים הַוְּרָדִים פּוֹרְחִים,
וְשִׁבְעָה יָמִים הַטְּלָלִים זוֹרְחִים,
וְשִׁבְעָה יָמִים חַלּוֹנוֹת פְּתוּחִים,
וְכָל קַבְּצָנַיִךְ עוֹמְדִים בָּרְחוֹב
וְנוֹשְׂאִים חִוְרוֹנָם אֶל הָאוֹר הַטּוֹב,
וְכָל קַבְּצָנַיִךְ שְׂמֵחִים.
מְכוֹרָה שֶׁלִּי, אֶרֶץ-נוֹי אֲבִיּוֹנָה,
לַמַּלְכָּה אֵין בַּיִת, לַמֶּלֶךְ אֵין כֶּתֶר,
רַק שִׁבְעָה יָמִים חַגִּים בְּשָׁנָה
וְעָמָל וְרָעָב כָּל הַיֶּתֶר.
אַךְ שִׁבְעָה יָמִים הַנֵּרוֹת בְּרוּכִים,
וְשִׁבְעָה יָמִים שֻׁלְחָנוֹת עֲרוּכִים,
וְשִׁבְעָה יָמִים הַלְּבָבוֹת פְּתוּחִים,
וְכָל קַבְּצָנַיִךְ עוֹמְדִים בִּתְפִלָּה,
וּבָנַיִךְ-בְּנוֹתַיִךְ חֲתַן-כַּלָּה,
וְכָל קַבְּצָנַיִךְ אַחִים.
עֲלוּבָה שֶׁלִּי, אֶבְיוֹנָה וּמָרָה,
לַמֶּלֶךְ אֵין בַּיִת, לַמַּלְכָּה אֵין כֶּתֶר –
רַק אַחַת בָּעוֹלָם אֶת שִׁבְחֲךָ אָמְרָה
וּגְנוּתֵךָ-חֶרְפָּתֵךְ כָּל הַיֶּתֶר.
וְעַל-כֵּן אֵלֵךְ לְכָל רְחוֹב וּפִנָּה,
לְכָל שׁוּק וְחָצֵר וְסִמְטָה וְגִנָּה,
מֵחֻרְבַּן חוֹמוֹתַיִךְ כָּל אֶבֶן קְטַנָּה
אֲלַקֵּט וְאֶשְׁמֹר לְמַזְכֶּרֶת.
וּמֵעִיר לְעִיר, מִמְּדִינָה לִמְּדִינָה
אָנוּדָהּ בְּשִׁיר וְתֵבַת-נְגִינָה
לְתַנּוֹת דַּלּוּתֵךְ הַזּוֹהֶרֶת.
From My Beloved Country’s Songs
Lea Goldberg, 1951
First Song*
My motherland, stripped gilded-country –
Your Queen has no home, your King has no crown.
And it’s spring for seven days a year
And the remainder is bleakness and winter.
But for seven days the roses do bloom,
And for seven days dewdrops shine in the moon,
And the windows flung-out, seven days of the year,
And all your beggars stand in the streets
And proffer their pallor, that the good light meets,
And all of your beggars are smiling.
My motherland, stripped gilded-country,
The Queen has no home, the King has no crown.
Holidays number just seven a year
And all else is labor and darkness.
But for seven days the candles are blessed,
And for seven days tables are set,
And the hearts open-hearted, seven days of the year,
And all your beggars stand sunk in prayer,
And your sons, your daughters a-union there,
And all of your beggars are siblings.
My poor country, so sallowly spent,
The King has no home, the Queen has no crown –
In the whole world just one voice your praises has sung
Your disgraces and shame the remainder.
And so I'll walk to every street and each corner,
To all the markets and gardens, every alley, each border,
From your parapets’ ruins the little cracked stones
I’ll pluck and retain those forever.
And move land to city, sway from city to land
With a music-box and a song in my hand
to spill your glistening poverty.
Translated by Reuben Noam
*This poem originally appeared first in a series of three, split by sections aleph, bet, gimel.
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