Shabbat Poem by Nero CaroZiv

It was the hour of childhood Fridays, when from the curved boughs
The sparrows were shimmering and the nightingale high note was heard;
It was the hour when soft pure voices of boys choir sounded like lover's vows
Pure holy prays coming from a temple so sweet in every whispered noted word;

Just before Shabbat, gentle winds and waters near,
Made such secrete, murmur music to my lonely ear
Each flower in coming Spring the dews had lightly wet,
And in the sky of early evening where throng of stars were met,

And on the forest gloom the shadows were deeper blue,
And on the young leaves dwelled a green hue,
And in the Heaven that was clear and yet somehow mysterious obscure
Such an hour of pleasure, with softly dark, and darkly pure,

Blessed Friday was declining at the end of day
As twilight melted beneath the rising moon away
The choir boys continued their holy graceful pray
And an old man was listening oscillating lull on his sway

Look there the Moon of Shabbat along the Spring sky
Sailing in her happy orbit unhidden from mortal eye
At early dusk she was dimly behind clouds seen
But later the clouds asunder did fly; how happy I had been


The holy Shabbat was spreading its presence on the air
As group of ghostly silhouettes rushed under white shrouds to a temple of pray
The scent of baked bread and soft cakes would engulf the scene everywhere
Trees and grass would stand serene at the descend of a holy day




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