Every year the night of Yitzchak Rabin's assassination becomes more distant

A year ago, it was closer

And next year it will be further

And therefore, this year's pain differs that of last year

And the pain of next year will yet differ

And now the current pain

What is this pain?

 

Actually, many have died and many shall die

of those we have known and strangers to us, those we loved and those we didn't love

And everyone is dear to his dear ones and recalled by those who remember him

And each one is an entire world of a person

And each has a soul, a body, a face and blood

And the blood of the prime minister is becoming distanced by years passing by

And every year, in the autumn we bring him back to us

Our brother, Yitzchak, murdered, lying in the square of the heart

And we cannot resurrect him, but merely remember him

That he stood at our head and led our armies

And was a huge builder of our independence.

And one of us killed our prime minister

He stood up against our brother Yitzchak

With hatred, with wickedness, out of abominable motives

And I, where do I come

And again autumn, and once again we remember the dead Yitzchak

And as long as we remember, he will not really die.