Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Chaim Gouri

His Mother

It was years ago, at the end of Deborah’s Song,
I heard the silence of Sisera’s chariot so long in coming,
I watch Sisera’s mother captured in the window,
a woman with a silver streak in her hair.

A spoil of multi-hued embroideries,
two for the throat of each despoiler.
This is what the maidens saw.
That very hour he lay in the tent as one asleep.
His hands quite empty.
On his chin traces of milk, butter, blood.
The silence was not broken by the horses and chariots.
The maidens, too, fell silent one by one.
My silence reached out to theirs.
After awhile sunset.
After awhile the afterglow is gone.

Forty years the land knew peace.  Forty years
no horses galloped, no dead horsemen stared glassily.
But her death came soon after her son’s.

HIS MOTHER

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His Mother

It was years ago, at the end of Deborah’s Song,
I heard the silence of Sisera’s chariot so long in coming,
I watch Sisera’s mother captured in the window,
a woman with a silver streak in her hair.

A spoil of multi-hued embroideries,
two for the throat of each despoiler.
This is what the maidens saw.
That very hour he lay in the tent as one asleep.
His hands quite empty.
On his chin traces of milk, butter, blood.
The silence was not broken by the horses and chariots.
The maidens, too, fell silent one by one.
My silence reached out to theirs.
After awhile sunset.
After awhile the afterglow is gone.

Forty years the land knew peace.  Forty years
no horses galloped, no dead horsemen stared glassily.
But her death came soon after her son’s.

His Mother

It was years ago, at the end of Deborah’s Song,
I heard the silence of Sisera’s chariot so long in coming,
I watch Sisera’s mother captured in the window,
a woman with a silver streak in her hair.

A spoil of multi-hued embroideries,
two for the throat of each despoiler.
This is what the maidens saw.
That very hour he lay in the tent as one asleep.
His hands quite empty.
On his chin traces of milk, butter, blood.
The silence was not broken by the horses and chariots.
The maidens, too, fell silent one by one.
My silence reached out to theirs.
After awhile sunset.
After awhile the afterglow is gone.

Forty years the land knew peace.  Forty years
no horses galloped, no dead horsemen stared glassily.
But her death came soon after her son’s.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère