Violin in my ribs
Guitar in my heart
Drums in my mind
Yet all out of sync
Guess I need a perfect conductor
But who will be brave enough
To tame such a disordered body?

After My Death
by Chaim Nachman Bialik
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Say this when you eulogize me:
Here was a man — now, ****, he's gone!
He died before his time.
The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt...
Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere,
but now it's been lost,
forever.
What a pity! He had a violin,
a living, eloquent soul
to which he uttered
the secrets of his heart,
setting its strings vibrating,
save the one he kept inviolate.
Back and forth his supple fingers twirled;
one string alone remained mesmerized,
yet unheard.
Such a pity!
All his life the string quivered,
quavering silently,
yearning for its song, its mate,
as a heart falters before its departure.
Despite constant delays it waited daily,
mutely beseeching its savior, Love,
who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly
and never came.
Great was the pain!
There was a man — now, ****, he's gone!
The music of his life was suddenly interrupted.
There was another song in him, somewhere,
but now it is lost
forever.

Chaim Nachman Bialik (1873-1934), first name also Hayim or Haim, was a Jewish Holocaust poet who wrote in Hebrew. Bialik was one of the pioneers of modern Hebrew poetry; he came to be recognized as Israel's national poet and the foremost modern Hebrew poet.

Keywords/Tags: Chaim Nachman Bialik, Hebrew, translation, Israel, life, music, violin, song, string, strings, heart, mate, love, pain, lost, forever

the tempest rages
a storm is all it can be
nature is absolved

Just this short moment
A little moment to yourself

Look at the sky for a moment
A pause in the humdrum of life

And just take a little moment
Like the quarter rest on hold

Cool down the thrumming heart
Relax those tense shoulders

Add a little honey
To the sourness of the situation

As life gives you lemons,
Make lemonade

An old violin
Is seasoned with tears
Hundreds of years
Of playing out loud
Pleasing the crowd
Have soaked right on in
Something strange
In the range
Of an old Violin
It's a reality
They form personality
Their own unique sound
Which can only be found
On that set of strings
And the music gets wings
Beauty and death
Laughter and sin
Are the notes that you play
On an old violin

After a long long time I thought of opening the case
To see the broken bow hanging on the top side,
On the glossy brown body, loose bow strings slide.
Bridge collapsing under the wires is undeniable,
Strings bending to some unknown tune, unrecognizable.

After a long long time I thought of opening the case
Once, it was an instrument of love and affection.
With work, for me to learn and to master.
Over the time the passion is just gone,
Clutching and wondering what went wrong? 

After a long long time I thought of opening the case 
I hugged it tightly and I simply cried.
In a desperate need to rekindle my old flame.
I started to fit together the broken pieces,
I tried to mend the old bearings of neglect.

After a long long time I thought of opening the case 
While wiping down the dust it made me wonder.
Why we let the things we love to fall under?
As we grow old and time passes by,
Things we love the most, always pay the price.

After a long long time I thought of opening the case 
Few things we must hold on to in this life,
No matter if experiences teach you to strife.
I am learning not to forget the things I once loved,
They make you who you are, where you once belonged...

I miss the music you played
The way you play your violin
Every single string you plucked
You plucked a string from my heart
Every note you made
You made with such love
But perhaps I suppose
Of all the things I missed
It was you I missed the most

Her voice
is softer
than the
moon, her
countenance
is that of a
fragile
symphony,
soaring
in her violin
song,
she is the
paralian
who lies
upon the
shore
and lets
the emerald
become her
dress and hair,
In the night
ocean, she
hears the
vague
waves of
memories
moving as
light in the
revolving
lanterns of
her mind,
the rose of
time opens,
she recollects
of how she was
the hidden petals
of the library,
delicate in the
secrecy of her,
beyond the old
books, within
her eyes, where
he saw the layers
of her rose
unfold before
the pages
she turned,
it was magical,
he thought,
of how the
small things,
the sea flower
of her secret
garden,
was once
revealed
to none,  
realized
only by
the one
who saw
with the
heart,
the clouds
became
words
unsung
in the gentle
glass silk
caressing
her fair hands,
she mused
upon where
to begin and
end, as she,
the wanderer,
returned from
her dreams,
she closed
her eyes,
through
time,
jazz,
space
and
healing,
the loner
awakens
in the shore
and sails,
holding
the stars
In her coffee
& a vintage
camera,
and it
echoed
to her,
what she
once said
to her lover,
the gentle of
how they
floated as
petals
above the
lotus
ponds,
in the
touching
of hands
and the
secret
she held
in the rose,
I will invite
you to hear
it’s whisper,
“to love is to be
as the water,
to the silver
song, you
will return.”