(ca. 15th–10th centuries BCE)
The little sycamore she planted
prepares to speak—the sound of rustling leaves
sweeter than honey.
On its lovely green limbs
is new fruit and ripe fruit red as blood jasper,
and leaves of green jasper.
Her love awaits me on the distant shore.
The river flows between us,
crocodiles on the sandbars.
Yet I plunge into the river,
my heart slicing currents, steady
as if I were walking.
O my love, it is love
that gives me strength and courage,
love that fords the river.
§
with pomegranate breasts;
her face is a polished wooden snare.
And I am the poor wild bird
seduced
into the teeth of her trap.
§
gobbling in my cave,
within . . . the pebbles beneath
. . . the moringa tree
. . . eating of the bread
offered to the gods
§
(translated by Barbara Hughes Fowler)