Translated by Mick Halsband

Between the skins of wine, raisins and figs
You bear a bright eyed kid.

You who laid against the sun
Saw stones cast at a foe’s forehead

(Certain stories are gladly heard)

You cried ‘enough!’ we didn’t listen
You never spoke we could have missed it

Did he play the harp
Did he gift a kid

And had he stayed in your lament
And had he donned an amulet

You who in his hand were
the Sling, the Stone, the Strike
You who wait, caressing,
a thousand words a night

Carved from you the bird
of heavens, tore from you
the beasts of wild

You who turn to all,
the shadow passing through a hall
a shadow of the man mauled

And at his hands, by backs and throats
You will forever be two hundred raisins and
two hundred loaves.