Then there was the rose I fell in love with—
a December rose.
When we say “Eden”
amid our snows we have in mind
the image of a rose garden in December.
I pluck a December rose,
similar to these.
Yes, when, amid our snows, we say “Eden”
we conceive of a vale
overgrown with olive trees and laurels
reaching to the flat heavens.
A deer, its antlers entangled in the roses,
a lamb, a lion …
No lamentation, no tears.
On the other side of the ravine, over the heads of the roses
the valley of Ajalon, rough like a sail,
from those times when the sun of Joshua
frizzled its edge. And the blazing little town
ran with blood beyond the sugar-lump walls.
Mountains of folks, donkeys, goats …
Quantities of blood let.
No, December rose, Eden’s no magical garden.
On the ashy sole its hills, liner of blood—
just as amid our snows, but more ancient by far,
and the tops of the trees spattered with death’s rust,
and the December rose, tight like God’s scroll,
like the Lord’s wrath, weighs on my heart.
Translated by Daniel Weissbort