Log Cabin Chronicles
Oh my light-washed
Andalusia. Oh my sweet
Andalusia. Oh my bitter
and cherished Palestina. Oh my
springtime Palestina. The terrible Lorca
already strolls your plazas:
As if he had just now emerged
from between the delightful pages of
Eliaz' delicate and lovely translation.
I follow him, enter
into his eyes: knives rest
under the roses and terror has nestled itself
among the palm branches. And the purity
of the bridal dress becomes entangled in the rope
of the assassin, who is crouched in hiding.
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner
Elisha Porat writes on a kibbutz in Israel.
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Copyright © 2005 Elisha Porat