Job's pain

With deep pain

am I listening to the News

It is a pain taking root in my body

Deep inside my belly

Where you and every of us is suspended

A dead girl’s body or of a man

How could I possibly express condolence sorrow pain

When the abstract line of dialogue is

Suspended

Do I remember my motherhood and the pain in and throughout my womb?

Motherhood is starting once but never ending

How could I share some words of grieve of pain of solitude and isolation

Oh Hersh

with deep pain

I have heard your voice

Calling crying for help and assistance and support that had not come

Whereas I am supposed to think and take into consideration Job

And Job’s Pain

And I have to 

Shut up

In front of too much pain

giving advice

Where consolation is impossible

One has to respect the pain and silence

Dialogue is no longer possible

They say

Its not something someone like me has to give 

Moral lessonsare not tolerated

A nazibreed is not allowed to give moral lessons

It's the bottom and root of evil.  

They say there is no solidarity and if there was one it vanished quickly

But solidarity is not an one way ticket

Solidarity is rooted near the place where evil begun and started to hurt

I feel so much pain

I don't have anything to say or tell

nothing about Buber or Cohen

The great jewish philosophers talking about universalism of Faith

They say its twisted  annihilated or to be annihilated

Oh Hersh your hand

Iam wondering how long you had the courage 

being buried alive

a dead citizen

Oh Hersh your hand

gives me heart ache

They say

my words are nothing you could feel

nor would they reach out to you

Tu n'en auras rien

Encore une chose

Je voulais te dire

Still one thing has to be said -cleared

Eins aber noch ist zu sagen

This  poem of Hölderlin I cherished for so many years

and its translation I worked on

Beginning in France, Paris at the Alliance Française

sitting in a class room for beginners with an old Turkish imame

who could hardly understand a single word

of my twisted tongue

my language my tongue to be broken

Dans ma langue ridicule que tout le monde saura de bon coeur ridiculisée

But the point I get stuck/ stucked all those years always on

is

the revolving one

not satisfaction nor happiness nor self-esteem nor pure and sheer luck

this kind of beyond dignity

au-delà de honnête satisfaction ayant été consommée par joie

and melancholy

being a slut cunt

a dead person morally socially intellectually artistically

whatever I could say is nothing

even the comparison to Hölderlin is stolen based on borrowed insight, cranked up with false empathy

someone like me

hat nichts zu sagen.

and so I thought helpful to get some advice from friends, women on particular or

relatives

about cette épineuse question de dévoiler au grand public

speaking out

 in public

what is already public

But  fragile ones I have asked they say, and I can hear their fragile voices breaking again, shadowing back into

shame ,

you can't.

You can NOT

There is no dignity in

exposing ABUSE.

(And their broken voices 

not looking at French trials not regarding French newspapers

still insist on the abyssal fact:)

There is no dignity

Tu n'en auras rien

tu n'exposeras que ta monstrosité.

tu verrras ce que tu en gagneras , dixit la voix avec une haine froide

But you see I am still wondering

being unable to think

unable to handle purity correctly in an appropriate way

how deeply unconscious

a woman must be

oh melancholy my words my subject