Poem
Ilan Sheinfeld
DEAD CHILD
There’s a child with a bloated belly cowering in my bed.
His eyes, surprisingly calm, have begun to spill.
Flies nibble at the corners of his pale lips, forage
in his tousled brittle curls.
It’s complicated to sleep beside a dead child.
An unknown child lies here, souring the air with advanced decay.
And his blood has crusted and stained my linen.
Its a shame to throw a dead child to be scavenged in the streets.
Its late, anyway, I need my bed
and I just can't sleep with some dead child at my breast.
© Translation: 1992, Riva Rubin
כדי לישון בשקט אני צריך לזרוק ילדים מתים ממיטתי
כדי לישון בשקט אני צריך לזרוק ילדים מתים ממיטתי
יֶלֶד מְכֻוָּץ שֶׁבִּטְנוֹ נְפוּחָה שׁוֹכֵב עַל מִטָּתִי.
עֵינָיו נִשְׁפָּכוֹת לְאִטָּן, בְּשַׁלְוָה בִּלְתִּי מְשֹׁעֶרֶת.
זְבוּבִים טוֹרְפִים אֶת קְצוֹת שְׂפָתָיו הַחִוְרוֹת וְעָפִים אֶל תּוֹךְ
שְׂעָרוֹ. קָשֶׁה וְסָבוּךְ וּמְדֻבְלָל.
לִישֹׁן יַחַד עִם יֶלֶד מֵת זֶה לֹא קַל.
יֶלֶד זָר שׁוֹכֵב בְּמִטָּתִי וְיֵשׁ חֲמִיצוּת בָּאֲוִיר וְרִקָּבוֹן מִתְקַדֵּם.
דָּמוֹ נִקְרָשׁ כְּתָמִים גְּדוֹלִים עַל מַצָּעַי.
חֲבָל לִזְרֹק יֶלֶד מֵת שֶׁיִּטָּרֵף בָּרְחוֹבוֹת.
אֲבָל כְּבָר מְאֻחָר, אֲנִי עָיֵף, צָרִיךְ אֶת מִטָּתִי
וּכְלָל אֵינִי מְסֻגָּל לִישֹׁן עִם יֶלֶד זָר מֵת בְּחֵיקִי.
© 1984, Ilan Sheinfeld
From: Osim ahava ba lashon
Publisher: Dvir, Tel Aviv
From: Osim ahava ba lashon
Publisher: Dvir, Tel Aviv
Poems
Poems of Ilan Sheinfeld
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DEAD CHILD
There’s a child with a bloated belly cowering in my bed.
His eyes, surprisingly calm, have begun to spill.
Flies nibble at the corners of his pale lips, forage
in his tousled brittle curls.
It’s complicated to sleep beside a dead child.
An unknown child lies here, souring the air with advanced decay.
And his blood has crusted and stained my linen.
Its a shame to throw a dead child to be scavenged in the streets.
Its late, anyway, I need my bed
and I just can't sleep with some dead child at my breast.
© 1992, Riva Rubin
From: Osim ahava ba lashon
From: Osim ahava ba lashon
DEAD CHILD
There’s a child with a bloated belly cowering in my bed.
His eyes, surprisingly calm, have begun to spill.
Flies nibble at the corners of his pale lips, forage
in his tousled brittle curls.
It’s complicated to sleep beside a dead child.
An unknown child lies here, souring the air with advanced decay.
And his blood has crusted and stained my linen.
Its a shame to throw a dead child to be scavenged in the streets.
Its late, anyway, I need my bed
and I just can't sleep with some dead child at my breast.
© 1992, Riva Rubin
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