This night is irredeemable.
Where you are, it is still bright.
At the gates of Jerusalem,
a black sun is alight.

The yellow sun is hurting,
sleep, baby, sleep.
The Jews in the Temple-s burning
buried my mother deep.

Without rabbi, without blessing,
over her ashes, there,
the Jews in the Temple-s burning
chanted the prayer.

Over this mother,
Israel-s voice was sung.
I woke in a glittering cradle,
lit by a black sun.