So it's none of my business! None of my business. A man has books and wants to sell them. It's none of my business None of my business. It's an original Rambam That he wants to sell To the highest bidder In Zurich or in Rome. My first visit to Rome "That's something that will interest you," My friends said "The collection of old Hebrew books At the Vatican. Interest me? I died a little At the Vatican I felt like at Titus' Gate A thousand years remembered in my psyche In my bones. My books At the Vatican My defeat At the Vatican Knowing me better than myself At the Vatican Robbing me thereby. The Roman chains Bit into my legs The ball dragged at my feet. "Here's the oldest Talmud In the world," they showed me. The man who wrote that Didn't write it For the Vatican! Ink and feather pen The man Though dead these hundreds of years Alive! In ink and feather pen Artfully lettering, loving Each stroke an obeisance Each curl, a thanksgiving. Didn't "scribe" it For the Vatican! It's none of my business! A man has books and wants to sell them. None of my business? I have some old books, too. Wine spilt upon the pages Awakening memories of a child I never knew. On a Sabbath morning, Round a table A hand moved in loving argument The wine spilled from the Silver Kiddush cup The life around the book Creeping inside it! I have another With tiny letters written in the margins By some Jew, Written to be bequeathed To other Jews, More alive in Ink and feather pen Than all the pictures on the banknotes That could be given in exchange. One, in the frontispiece, says, "I am seven years old And not too expert in spelling. Please, therefore, dear reader, Forgive my mistakes." Sell? To the Vatican?! Impossible!

Sell my books
Sell them to the highest bidder!
To the Vatican for all I care!

One child muttering his aleph beth
over a brand new
photostatic copy
is worth
the whole batch of
untouched manuscripts.

I have some old books. too,
Wine spilt on the pages.
Every time I see it,
I smile and remember how it happened.
On a Shabbat morning
around the table
A hand moved
In angry loving argument.
The wine spilled from the
Silver Kiddush cup.
The life around the book
Inside it.

And another
With tiny writing in the margin
of some old Jew
More alive in
Ink and feathered pen than all the pictures
On the banknotes
That could be given
In exchange

Oh, yes
I have to say it
The Vatican, birthplace of inquisitions
The graveyard of hope for help.
The Vatican was silent when asked to bid
For millions of Jewish lives
Must you sell our books to the highest bidder
$8,000,000 they say
You'll be getting from who knows whom?


How much will you be giving the government in profit tax
Or is there no tax on such treasures?
And what will you do with $8,000,000.?

Who will he be, this highly moneyed buyer,
not necessarily a Jew
nor even a scholar,
Just money!
Knowing me, better than myself.
Selling me to the Vatican
robbing me thereby,
the Roman chains cutting into my legs,
the balls dragging at my feet
"Here's the oldest Talmud in the world"
They showed me.
The man who wrote that book
Didn't write it for the Vatican!

The man, though dead these hundreds of years
is alive in ink and feathered pen
But not only he
And his years of careful lettering,
- but also
the Word
the Law
all live, alive, vibrant.


Who would have expected you, a lover of books,
not to want them to remain even as a picture,
giving evidence
of the Word,
the Law,
the Book;
of Jewish Culture
of Jewish Identity.