Permit me
to unburden my heart.
Whether I talk sense
or whether I speak from pain,
I suffer from a disease,
which is not called an illness.
They call it old age.
It gnaws and it yearns.
For what was, was, and is no more.
That year, that hour has already passed.
How quickly youthful joy flies away
and cannot be recaptured.
For what was, was, and is no more….
The faculties become weak,
the hair turns gray….
One can mend himself, hide under nice clothing,
make himself up;
but he fools no one but himself,
for what was, was, and is no more…. |
derloybt lozt zikh dinen,
oysredn mayn harts.
tsi red ikh fun zinen,
tsi red ikh fun shmerts,
ikh layd fun a krankayt,
vos heyst nit keyn krenk.
men ruft es on elter,—
es nog un es benkt.
vayl vos geven iz geven un nito.
shoyn avek yene yor yene sho.
vi shnel farflit der yinger glik,
un men ken es nisht khapn mer tsurik.
vayl vos geven iz geven un nito …
di kraftn vern shvakh,
di hor vert gro …
men neyt zikh, men kleydt zikh,
men makht zikh sheyn; men nart ober keynem
nor – zikh aleyn,
vayl vos geven iz geven un nito … |
