Out of respect for the miner's who were lost in the U.S. coal mine disaster a few weeks ago, I asked for and received permission to publish the original version and translation of this beautiful song.

Michael

SHAKHTERLID
Fun Z. Segalowitsh

Adye, adye, der liber zun,
dem himl un di shtraln!
Mir raysn op zikh itst derfun,
Far undz iz alts farfaln.

Der tifer vald, dos fraye feld,
Dem frilings ale prakhtn...
Adye, adye der sheyner velt,
Mir Geyen in di shakhtn!

Es gist zikh likht oyf yedn veg,
Es klingen morgnlider;
Es iz di nakht nor-vos avek,
Far undz iz nakht shoyn vider.

Far undz iz nakht in grub arayn,
Genug vet zayn tsu trakhtn...
Adye, adye, der liber shayn,
Mir geyen in di shakhtn!

Simple translation:

Adieu, adieu, the lovely sun,
the sky and the sky-rays!
We are now being detached there from,
For us it's all over.

The shady woods, the free fields,
the beauties of the spring;
Adieu, adieu, you gorgeous world -
We are going in the shafts.

The light is spreading on the roads,
Morning songs are ringing;
The night has just come to an end,
For us night's just beginning.

For us it's night down in the graves,
It is enough to think, to ponder,
Adieu, Adieu, oh precious shine,
We are going in the shafts.


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The author of this song, Z. Segalovitsh was born in Bialistok, Poland in 1984; died in NY, USA, in 1949. He is best known for his Holocaust literature, among these, the collection of poetry in the books Itster and Dortn.

I love to recite from memory his poem Ash. In this poem he beautifully expresses that everything that is of importance, truth and holy is there in the ashes. At the end of the poem he says: "Oyf dr'erd vil ikh faln un forzikhtik horkhn, biz ash vet zikh nemen bevegn un shorkhn - der ash fun milyonen - vel ikh efsher khapn a klang a dershtiktn, un zukhn un tapn; un efsher gefinen, gefinen a beyndl, fun eynem a Yankl, fun eyner a Sheynd, a kindershn finger fun flam nisht farendikt, men zol es bahaltn mit tfiles oyf shtendik (I want to search in these ashes and carefully listen, till ashes will begin to move and rustle; and perhaps I will find there a precious bone of someone named Yankl, someone, named Sheyndl, a childs finger unconsumed by the flames, so we could bury it, pray for it and cherish these for ever).