At the field hospital

ELISHA PORAT

Those who were born, like me, in that fateful year
spend their lives looking for their fellow travelers:
A baby transported on the floor of
an armored bus, and a young mother
shielding it with her body;
a traveler who has traversed his life
but left his heart behind
quivering at the bus depot.
Let me remind you of something:
we were but a year old then
when the fate of the world was decided in
a bloodbath: Bathe, Scream, Bleed.
Cryptic words, evil, inscribed
on an ancient amulet.

Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner.

Elisha Porat writes on a kibbutz in Israel.

Home | Poetry Menu