אֲרַמִּי֙ אֹבֵ֣ד אָבִ֔י

(Page 21)

Imaginary man, go. Here is your passport. 

You are not allowed to remember. 

You have to match the description:

your eyes are already blue. 

Don’t escape with the sparks

inside the smokescreen: 

you are a man, you sit in the train. 

Sit comfortably. 

You’ve got a decent coat now, 

a repaired body, a new name 

ready in your throat.

Go. you are not allowed to forget.

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


haggadah Section: Introduction
Source: Mishkan HaSeder