The flames above me burn, burn,
And before the woman can turn, return,
There’s a sharp knock at the door, the door.
She puts the matches in the drawer, the drawer,
And she crosses the floor.
“Run!” the man yells at the door, the door.
He grips his hat in a fervor, fervor.
“Run fast, now, grab everything you can!
But only what you can carry, like that pot and that pan!
Hurry, hurry!” shouts the man.
The woman grabs a sack off the rack, the rack.
She blows out my candles and slides me in the sack, the sack.
“The Nazis are coming, grab all that you can!”
The man, the man,
He shouts again and again.
As they flee down the road, the road,
The woman shouts, “Where shall we go?”
“To Amsterdam!” says the man,
Again and again
As my paint is chipped on a pan, a pan.
We hide in a shack, a shack,
The woman always wonders, “Will we ever go back?”
The matches are back in Germany,
I sit without flames,
But nothing dulls me!
Years, they do pass, slower and slower
And the woman’s hope gets lower and lower.
Until, finally, one day, the woman falls ill,
And still, in the dust, I forever sit still.
One day the man, he gives her a pill.
Faster she fades, quickly, quickly!
Until finally, she no more looks sickly.
She just lies there all day, stiff as a stone,
While the man weeps over her throne,
And his life is postponed.
One morning I hear a shout, a shout!
“It’s over, it’s over!” from the radio, sprouts.
The man claps his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks,
And suddenly his life isn’t so bleak.
I am dropped in the sack, the sack,
As the man whispers, “We’re going back!”
We make the long journey, and still the days pass.
One day my bottom touches some glass
Alas, alas, I’m facing a class!
I am not home, but here, here!
Facing many children who can’t help but stare.
“My Bubbe’s,” says a little voice from behind,
The girl lights my candle, they shine, they shine!
I straighten myself up, proud as can be:
For I have a lot, a lot to teach!