('Songs from the Ghetto,'[120] pp. 70-76)
Der schrecklicher Wind, der gefährlicher Sturem,
Er rangelt sich dort mit a Schiff auf 'n Meer;
Er will sie zubrechen, un' sie mit Jessurim
Schneid't durch alle Tiefeniss, krächzendig schwer.
Es treschtschet der Mastbaum, der Segel, er zittert,
Der rauschender Wasser is' mōredig tief;--
Es kämpfen mit Zoren, es streiten varbittert
Auf Tōdt un' auf Leben der Wind mit der Schiff.
Oh, and that is my child, my first-born! For his sake I have borne so
many privations and pains, that I might be able to place him on his
feet!
"Yes, my child, my sore vexation! Another mother would have cursed his
bones; she would have said: 'You are not my son, I am not your
mother,'--But I cannot do that,--forgive me, O Lord, that I still call
him 'my child, my son'!... Oh, I can ask for my death of You, but not
for the death of my child! Punish me, Lord of the Universe, me, his
sinful mother! Maybe I am to be blamed that he has departed from the
road of righteousness, and has forgotten You, O living God, and has
abandoned Your Law and does not do Your commandments! Yes, I am to be
blamed for it, I have loved him too much; I always did what he wanted me
to do; I have always quarrelled with his pious father when he wanted to
punish him. I have raised him such as he is, and do punish me for him!"...