Here's another that I always have trouble getting through. Perhaps a little maudlin, but wonderful nonetheless. Leah Goldberg's "From My Mother's Home", as translated by Ezra Spicehandler:
My mother’s mother died in the spring
of her day. And her daughter did not
remember her face. Her image,
engraved upon my grandfather’s heart,
was erased from the world of figures
after his death.
Only her mirror remained in the house,
grown deeper with age within its silver
frames. And I, her pale granddaughter,
who do not resemble her, look into it
today as if into a lake that hides its
Treasures beneath the water.
Deep down, behind my face, I see a
young woman, pink-cheeked, smiling.
She is wearing a wig. Now she is
hanging a long earring from her ear
lobe, threading it through the tiny
opening in the dainty flesh of her ear.
Deep down, behind my face, glows the
clear golden speck of her eyes. And the
mirror carries on the family tradition:
that she was very beautiful.
(Sorry again for no Hebrew; couldn't get the formatting to work. Will try to post it later).
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