The Stars and the Cookie Jar

I fell asleep translating Violeta's poem. Yes, this happens a lot. Head on notebook, commence drool. But this time... this time...

Listen to me, this woman did nothing in her life but read, and write, and speak, and be brave. She kicked the quotas, and she made Yiddish rhymed verse roll over and be her bitch.

Okay, I'm being a little narrow in focus, but I'm telling you. It happened in my sleep.

Shprikhstu mir oyf Prinzen, da'n dayn troyme shprintzen;

far un Reyd mir bett'len, als kann ikh ayngeb.

'Speak to me of princes, of what runs through your dreams; beg a tale from me, all I have, but I can give it to you."

So, I obviously read too much Peter S. Beagle and heed too much of people's meter, because I dreamed, and it turned into this, and I was sort of humming along. Here, see, it goes.

Oranges and cherries, sweetest candleberries,

who will come and buy? Who will come and buy?

Songs, they're songs, Violeta was writing songs.

(collects Lexikon, notebook and pencil and clatters off like an insane person to get back to this)

Eeeeeeeeeee!