Digging deep into the recesses of my memory,
I do that once in a while,
Various visions of Monsey come to mind,
Faded memories that make me smile.
The rocks, the trees, the mountain air,
Bearded figures decked in black,
Yeshivos, Mikvehs, opulent domiciles,
Is there anything that they lack?
The Voice of Jacob rings out from the Lion's lair,
Cubs of the captivity these men still young,
Immersing themselves in the Holy Books,
Struggling to learn the Holy Tongue.
They strive to cling to the Divine,
Fleeing from the vulgar and crude,
Guarding their tongues and eyes,
Learning the Lion's leaflet on the laws of Yichud.
Another page, another tractate,
The cubs of the captivity grow,
After a grateful "farewell" to the lair,
Off to make faithful homes they go.
The celebrity of the Lion spreads,
Far beyond the suburban shtetle,
Speaking on the stage with nation's sages,
Oy vey! Mistakes sure can be fatal!
For something has gone awry,
Turpitude in a telephone call,
He who profanes the Name in private,
Is punished before the eyes of all.
Observing from a distance,
I see the foolish felicity,
Of those rejoicing in their enemy's downfall,
Making mirth of his calamity.
The Lion fell; he will surely toil,
Pursuing the path of penitence,
This is the way of the Torah scholar,
And the stumbling block of the dense.