For whom, I ask
These tears are shed
From crowds nearing a million?
That ranges wide
Across spectrums
From soldier to civilian
Rabbonim who have
Spent their lives
Inside the walls of Lita
Crying with the man who sells
Falafel balls and pita
Soldiers, sailors
Bochurim
And children of all ages
Women, girls and rebbetzins
The ignorant and sages
They came for Rav Ovadiah
Who touched each one of them
Who saw each nefesh Yehudi
As an unpolished gem
From where had come this legacy
This genius of a man
For him the Torah was his life
His knowledge worlds would span
Indeed, it was a world
Gone by
In Bagdad born a son
Who’d shine a light
Upon his folk
And lift them up as one
They named the boy Ovadiah
And little did they know
How great in Torah he’d become
And how their son would grow
His father, Yaakov Gali
Earned prutos as a grocer
But young Ovadiah loved to learn
To the Shechinah he’d get closer
His parents could not pay for help
“Ovadiah, help!” they said
But Rav Attia said, “Just learn!
I’ll work for them instead”
Learning days, entire nights
In Porat Yosef Yeshiva
Where he sat
The Shechinah came
And lit up his whole svivah
And in his early years as rov
He saw what they endured
The Yidden from Edot Mizrach
How their souls were lured
He fought, he ran
He traveled
He truly waged a war
He would not stop until returned
Atarah leyoshnah
Not fearing from
A human soul
Outspoken from his heart
He feared not politicians
The truth he would impart
Tomes and tomes of seforim
Imbedded in his mind
Piskei halacha, thousands
Despite his being blind
Behind those darkened glasses
Were eyes that filled with light
That cried for thousands
Of lost souls
And others in their plight
Sefardim, Ashkenazim
And those who practiced naught
Somehow felt
He spoke to them
As if to them
He taught
And now the multitudes
Do cry
For the Rishon L’Tzion
And so diverse
When they’d disperse
That day, “He was our own”
