My Race is Talking
My ancestors: Men in satin and in velvet, faces long and like pale silk; languishing, fervid lips. The thin hands patting yellowed folioes. In the depth of night they talk with God .
And merchants from Leipzig and Danzig. Blank cuffs. Delicate smoke of cigars. Gemarah jokes. German courtesies. The look is wise and faint, wise and surfeited. Don Juans, tradesmen and godseekers .
A drunkard, a few renegades in Kieff .
My ancestors: Women adorned with diamonds like idols, reddishly darkened by turkish shawls, heavy folds of satin de Lyons. But the body is a weeping willow, but like dry flowers the fingers in the lap, and in the faded, veiled eyes — dead desire .
And grandames in calico and in linen; broadbony and strong and lively, with the contemptous light laughter, with quiet talk and weird silence. Before dark at the window of the humble house they appear like statues. And through the misty eyes twitches cruel lust .
And a few, of whom I am ashamed .
They all, my ancestors, blood of my blood and flame of my flame, dead and living ones mixed together, sad, grotesque and big, trample through me like through a dark house, trample with prayers and curses and wailing, shake my heart like a copper bell, my tongue is a-tremble, I don't know my own voice — my race is talking .
And merchants from Leipzig and Danzig. Blank cuffs. Delicate smoke of cigars. Gemarah jokes. German courtesies. The look is wise and faint, wise and surfeited. Don Juans, tradesmen and godseekers .
A drunkard, a few renegades in Kieff .
My ancestors: Women adorned with diamonds like idols, reddishly darkened by turkish shawls, heavy folds of satin de Lyons. But the body is a weeping willow, but like dry flowers the fingers in the lap, and in the faded, veiled eyes — dead desire .
And grandames in calico and in linen; broadbony and strong and lively, with the contemptous light laughter, with quiet talk and weird silence. Before dark at the window of the humble house they appear like statues. And through the misty eyes twitches cruel lust .
And a few, of whom I am ashamed .
They all, my ancestors, blood of my blood and flame of my flame, dead and living ones mixed together, sad, grotesque and big, trample through me like through a dark house, trample with prayers and curses and wailing, shake my heart like a copper bell, my tongue is a-tremble, I don't know my own voice — my race is talking .
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