translated by Dov Greenwood

Late at night, I’m haunted by the cries of Scheherazade 
All the way out from the fragrant orchards of Baghdad, 
Just as the night’s wind haunts me, humid and perfumed, 
Crying and fatigued among the myrrh and sandalwood. 

She bends her knee for fate, for the Caliph, for her lord, 
With just her meager life and her overwhelming terror, 
She implores and searches in the playing of his face: 
Is this the time—will she no longer see the morning rays? 

“Master of the seasons and sovereign of every age! 
Let me tell you now of wondrous worlds far away— 
Miracles of Allah, O may His name be praised, 
When His hand is lowered down and when His hand is raised. 

“Let me tell you now of cities — emerald-and-green, 
And faces — like the moon, and bosoms — of jasmine, 
And princes and princesses — transformed to masonry, 
And kingdoms — requisitioned through acts of sorcery.” 

The tales of Scheherazade shimmer, elegant and light, 
Full of yearning passion, like the humid Eastern nights; 
Her fantasy sparkles, gushes, swells, and entertains, 
While the executioner awaits behind the drapes. 

In the executioner’s hand, the ax glistens, sharp, 
As she launches into tales of wondrous worlds far off, 
Tired of creation’s joy, tired, she fears the end: 
“Save me, O, my lord and master, save me from his hand!”

“O, you prince of boundless faith! Is it not true that He, 
He, who can see everything, and yet is never seen, 
Rules from above, for he made the Heavens without souls— 
Let me have a while, still, to see His Heaven-world! 

“I’ll cast a spell for you to see the lamp of Al-ad-din, 
Walls made of alabaster and rooftops made of ruby, 
Starry-pearl, the majesty of mystifying might— 
Gift me with just one more night, O lord, with one more night!” 

Within my heart, I, too, cry the cries of Scheherazade, 
All the way out from the fragrant orchards of Baghdad, 
As she flutters tiredly, before her fated end: 
“Save me, O, my lord and master, save me from his hand!” 

Soon, the divan is prepared, and so they bring her in, 
While a thousand lives are pouring from her flame-fountain; 
Soon thereafter, they bind up her black eyes with a scarf, 
While a world emerges from the vision in her heart. 

“O, pray, do not raise your ax! O, executioner, halt! 
For I still have yet to let the brightest one shine out! 
I have one that’s yet unborn, still deep within my mind, 
A wonder over wonders, a thousand and one nights! 

“O, pray, don’t let die with me this treasury of mine! 
O, don’t let it pass away, that which should never die! 
Through the ages, let my voice rise up before the folk, 
Before the pilgrims, and before the exiles without hope. 

“I want to live, to live within my fantastical play, 
In the vibrant rainbow that’s so full and filled with flame, 
Casting love like light upon all gloomy wanderers 
From another world, a world of magic and wonders!” 

Within my heart, I, too, cry the cries of Scheherazade, 
Whether in the scorching darkness somewhere in Baghdad, 
Or in this sickly winter-wind, here, at my bedside, 
Before that fate, so lonely, before that fate, so blind. 

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A. Liessin (pen-name of Avrom Walt), was born in Minsk in 1872 to a family with an eminent rabbinic lineage. Like his ancestors, he demonstrated remarkable intellectual aptitude from a young age, which he put toward the study of Talmud. But like his contemporaries, he was attracted to non-religious works, especially history books, and at the age of twelve already had begun to have religious doubts. After abandoning religious practice in young adulthood, he departed for Vilna, where he joined the Haskalah, or Jewish Enlightenment. There, he became a leader in the realm of Jewish socialism; some of his earliest poetry reflects these revolutionary themes. In 1896, he immigrated to the United States, and began publishing his poetry in The Forward. In 1913, he took over as editor of Di Tsukunft, which became the most significant journal of Yiddish literature and socialist thought in the country, and published the rest of his poems almost exclusively in the journal. While much of his later output deals with themes of Jewish nationhood, his poems touch on many subjects, and he had a particular interest in stories and storytellers, including such figures as Don Quixote and Scheherazade. Despite being extremely prolific, no extensive translation of his work exists. 

Dov Greenwood graduated Yale College in 2022, where he studied Humanities. There, he wrote his senior thesis on the relationship between synagogue Bibles and their historical relationship with American Jewish denominations. He is a translator of Yiddish, modern Hebrew, and Biblical Hebrew, and has been published in In Geveb, Ancient Exchanges, Circumference, The Lehrhaus, and Shibboleth: An Undergraduate Journal of Jewish Thought at Yale. He is fascinated by A. Liessin’s poetry and has published some of the only existing translations of Liessin’s work.