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Poetry || SubmissionsA Small Poetry WorkshopThree translations of the same poem By Elisha Porat The Lost Son So he came back, back like a stranger And when he came back he looked around him and could not Remember, for all to him was unfamiliar now: The house, the yard, the narrow path. Their memory cut off within his heart, Cut out and he, survived, reprieved, was now the one Who came; he who, still there, had sworn Though he be made a stranger, he would not forget: A footpath in the sand, the unploughed field, the trench That marked the boundry, the lemon tree, its bitter fruit. He felt his absence as if preordained: Eventually to return, come back a stranger, A darkness memory that would not depart, A skein unravelling, unravelled, of longings, warm Now, which would never be respun. translated from the Hebrew by Marzell Kay, 1999. The lost Son And he returned, like a stranger he returned. And as a stranger he looked round him and could not remember, for everything was strange to him around him: the house, the yard, the narrow path. And their memory delved through his heart, it cut, and he who survived, and was pardoned, and returned; and he, who swore still there he wouldn't forget a thing, even if he was estranged from the hell of dust, and the wild field and the border ditch, and the lemon tree, its sour fruit. He felt his absence was a sort of sentence: to return in the end, to return like a stranger, with a dark memory that wouldn't leave him and a frayed thread of warm nostalgia that would never again be restored. translated from the Hebrew by Lilian Naisberg Klain, 1999. The lost Son He came back, but he came like a stranger He came back, looked about and did not Recall, for to him, all appeared estranged: The house, the yard, the narrow lane. Their memory sliced through his heart, Cut, and he who survived and was favoured Came back; and he who had sworn back there That nothing would he forget, estranged though it be: A dirt path, and the barren field and the ditch At the edge, and the Lemon tree with its bitter fruit. He felt that his absence was almost ordained: To come back at last, to come like a stranger With a shadowy memory that was not estranged, And an unravelled thread of burning desire That will never more be made whole. Translated by Asher Harris 1998. Elisha Porat is a kibbutznik writer who has won many prizes for his work in poetry and prose. Other work by Elisha at Ariga: Previous stories and poems at Ariga by Elisha Porat Today's Situation
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