Poem
Shai Dotan
ONE MINUTE
Just one minute. I wantto scream. I shot him. He advanced
with a suspicious face. Who knew his pockets
were empty, his bag full of clothes.
Perhaps he didn’t have a work permit,
or once stole across the border. Perhaps he didn’t hear
my hands shouting, the blood
pounding in the chest, knocking on my temples.
Sometimes he wakes in my sleep
hard as lead, empty as the wind,
he says to me: My killer,
I never knew
you were of that kind.
© Translation: 2009, Rachel Tzvia Back
From: With an Iron Pen
Publisher: SUNY Press, Albany, NY, 2009
From: With an Iron Pen
Publisher: SUNY Press, Albany, NY, 2009
רֶגַע אֶחָד
רֶגַע אֶחָד
רַק רֶגַע אֶחָד. אֲנִי רוֹצֶה
לִצְעֹק. יָרִיתִי בּוֹ. הוּא הִתְקַדֵּם
בְּפָנִים חֲשׁוּדִים. מִי יָדַע שֶׁכִּיסָיו
.רֵיקִים, שֶׁתִּיקוֹ מָלֵא בְּגָדִים
,יִתָּכֵן שֶׁלֹּא הָיָה לוֹ אִשּׁוּר עֲבוֹדָה
שֶׁגָּנַב פַּעַם אֶת הַגְּבוּל. אוּלַי לֹא שָׁמַע
אֶת יָדַי צוֹעֲקוֹת, אֶת הַדָּם
.חוֹבֵט בֶּחָזֶה, מַקִּישׁ בָּרַקּוֹת
לִפְעָמִים הוּא מֵקִיץ בִּשְׁנָתִי
,קָשֶׁה כְּמוֹ עוֹפֶרֶת, רֵיק כְּמוֹ רוּחַ
אוֹמֵר לִי: הוֹרְגִי, לֹא יָדַעְתִּי
שֶׁאַתָּה בְּמִדָּה כָּזֹאת
© 2005, Shai Dotan
From: On the Verge
Publisher: Am Oved, Tel Aviv
From: On the Verge
Publisher: Am Oved, Tel Aviv
Poems
Poems of Shai Dotan
Close
ONE MINUTE
Just one minute. I wantto scream. I shot him. He advanced
with a suspicious face. Who knew his pockets
were empty, his bag full of clothes.
Perhaps he didn’t have a work permit,
or once stole across the border. Perhaps he didn’t hear
my hands shouting, the blood
pounding in the chest, knocking on my temples.
Sometimes he wakes in my sleep
hard as lead, empty as the wind,
he says to me: My killer,
I never knew
you were of that kind.
© 2009, Rachel Tzvia Back
From: With an Iron Pen
Publisher: 2009, SUNY Press, Albany, NY
From: With an Iron Pen
Publisher: 2009, SUNY Press, Albany, NY
ONE MINUTE
Just one minute. I wantto scream. I shot him. He advanced
with a suspicious face. Who knew his pockets
were empty, his bag full of clothes.
Perhaps he didn’t have a work permit,
or once stole across the border. Perhaps he didn’t hear
my hands shouting, the blood
pounding in the chest, knocking on my temples.
Sometimes he wakes in my sleep
hard as lead, empty as the wind,
he says to me: My killer,
I never knew
you were of that kind.
© 2009, Rachel Tzvia Back
From: With an Iron Pen
Publisher: 2009, SUNY Press, Albany, NY
From: With an Iron Pen
Publisher: 2009, SUNY Press, Albany, NY
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