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Poetry || SubmissionsThe same poem by Elisha Porat, in three translationsThe State of Things Translated by Nitsa Ben-Ari Good of you to call. It was nice to hear Your voice. And how are you? Great, you have made Progress. I saw what you published in the Journal. Yes, quite a few years have passed: And they have left their mark: there are a couple of grandchildren, I will not say how many. They should simply Not be counted. Me, what about me? The same walls And forty-two square meters: the earth is Moving, and everything is cracking up. And at night I am terrified: sudden crashes, the plaster Is peeling, and on the roof bats spit volleys Of fruit mashed with vomit and grain: and if I strain my ear to this silence that comes From your phone, I can very well hear: Herds of longing, galloping away to the mountains. As Things Stand Translated by Asher Harris Nice of you to phone, it was good to hear Your voice. And how are you? Well done, you've Come on. I saw what you'd had published in the Magazine. Too true, quite a few years have passed since then: And they've had their way, a few grandchildren, I won't say how many. You're really not supposed To count. And what about me? the same walls And forty-two square meters. The ground Shifts, and round about everything is cracked, and at night I tremble: sudden fractures, the plaster Flakes, and on the roof bats puke out bursts of Fruit squishy with vomit and seeds. And if I tune my ear to the silence that comes From your telephone, I can clearly hear: Droves of yearnings galloping away to the distant hills. Status Report Translated by Yuval Perez. It was nice of you to call, it's nice to hear your voice. How are you ? You are much better now. I've seen the work you published in the magazine. Yes, more than a few years had passed since: and it shows, there are few offsprings, he didn't say how many. One should not count. So, how am I ? the same walls and hundred & twenty square feet: the ground aways around me and everything cracks. I tremble at nights: sudden breaks, the plaster peels off, up on the roof bats spit showers of fruit mash softened by puke and grains. And if I attend to this silence coming from your phone, I can clearly hear: herds of longings fading away, galloping towards the mountains. More Elisha Porat at Ariga: Recipe for a Good Poem by Elisha Porat Four Poems by Elisha Porat The smell of fresh snow by Elisha Porat Elisha Porat at Google Today's Situation
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