פארבלאנדזשעט
היימישער קרעמלער
- זיך איינגעשריבן
- יולי 9, 2025
- מעסעדזשעס
- 30
- רעאקציע ראטע
- 175
- פונקטן
- 28
Between the stark divisions of day and night,
I wandered lost in absolutes of wrong and right.
Through temples of certainty and towers of pride,
Where prophets of extremes did boldly reside.
“Truth is pure,” they preached with might,
“Choose your camp—be dark or light!”
But something in my soul rebelled—
A quiet doubt I never quelled.
I drank their fire, I walked their line,
I called the crooked paths divine.
But years in black and white grew thin—
The world outside did not fit in.
Then came a dawn, not gold nor gray,
Just soft and strange in its own way.
No thunder, no blinding revelation—
Just a quiet shift in orientation.
Like dew upon a spider’s thread,
Like wisdom in the words unsaid,
Like twilight blushing heaven’s rim,
Like questions sung in a toddler’s hymn.
Between Sinai’s lines I saw unfold
A Torah neither brash nor bold,
But whispering through subtle grace
That truth is more than just a place.
Through Talmudic seas I learned to steer—
Where Beit Shammai and Hillel reappear.
“Eilu v’Eilu,” the heavens say,
“Both their voices light the way.”
In the twilight of bein hashmashot,
When halachic time begins to float,
Neither fully night nor day,
But sanctified in shades of gray.
The fences built to guard the law,
Are not the end, but paths in awe.
Between the chumra and the kula’s gate,
Each soul must walk its destined fate.
Where machloket dances with respect,
And no opinion God rejects,
There the Torah’s deepest threads
Are sewn where honest tension treads.
The Zohar hides in cryptic flame,
The Rambam seeks a rational name.
Rebbe Nachman sings through tears,
And Ramban spans the mystic spheres.
The seventy faces start to gleam,
Not fragments—but a prismed beam.
Each one a part, none absolute,
Together forming living truth.
Now I walk a gentler way—
A pilgrim of the sacred gray.
No longer trapped by right or wrong,
But listening for a deeper song.
A song that rises from the space
Between extremes, a quiet grace.
A song of doubt that holds belief,
Of joy that knows the touch of grief.
Here wisdom dwells in twilight hue,
Where certainties are cracked—but true.
And every rule becomes a thread
In the vast Divine tapestry spread.
So when I learn, I seek the place
Where judgment meets a hint of grace,
Where justice kisses lovingkindness,
Where fire learns to dance with silence.
For in this holy in-between,
Where neither side is fully seen,
The Master weaves with threads unseen—
A tapestry of gray, serene.
I wandered lost in absolutes of wrong and right.
Through temples of certainty and towers of pride,
Where prophets of extremes did boldly reside.
“Truth is pure,” they preached with might,
“Choose your camp—be dark or light!”
But something in my soul rebelled—
A quiet doubt I never quelled.
I drank their fire, I walked their line,
I called the crooked paths divine.
But years in black and white grew thin—
The world outside did not fit in.
Then came a dawn, not gold nor gray,
Just soft and strange in its own way.
No thunder, no blinding revelation—
Just a quiet shift in orientation.
Like dew upon a spider’s thread,
Like wisdom in the words unsaid,
Like twilight blushing heaven’s rim,
Like questions sung in a toddler’s hymn.
Between Sinai’s lines I saw unfold
A Torah neither brash nor bold,
But whispering through subtle grace
That truth is more than just a place.
Through Talmudic seas I learned to steer—
Where Beit Shammai and Hillel reappear.
“Eilu v’Eilu,” the heavens say,
“Both their voices light the way.”
In the twilight of bein hashmashot,
When halachic time begins to float,
Neither fully night nor day,
But sanctified in shades of gray.
The fences built to guard the law,
Are not the end, but paths in awe.
Between the chumra and the kula’s gate,
Each soul must walk its destined fate.
Where machloket dances with respect,
And no opinion God rejects,
There the Torah’s deepest threads
Are sewn where honest tension treads.
The Zohar hides in cryptic flame,
The Rambam seeks a rational name.
Rebbe Nachman sings through tears,
And Ramban spans the mystic spheres.
The seventy faces start to gleam,
Not fragments—but a prismed beam.
Each one a part, none absolute,
Together forming living truth.
Now I walk a gentler way—
A pilgrim of the sacred gray.
No longer trapped by right or wrong,
But listening for a deeper song.
A song that rises from the space
Between extremes, a quiet grace.
A song of doubt that holds belief,
Of joy that knows the touch of grief.
Here wisdom dwells in twilight hue,
Where certainties are cracked—but true.
And every rule becomes a thread
In the vast Divine tapestry spread.
So when I learn, I seek the place
Where judgment meets a hint of grace,
Where justice kisses lovingkindness,
Where fire learns to dance with silence.
For in this holy in-between,
Where neither side is fully seen,
The Master weaves with threads unseen—
A tapestry of gray, serene.
