Red Kubbeh
So much depends upon
A pot
Of my grandmother Naima’s
Red kubbeh soup.
Put the pot on the fire and pour in the water
To bring close to your grandchildren the rivers of Babylon,
A comfort in Jerusalem in exile.
Dar-il-Yahud disappeared a long time ago.
Your hands are also gone. The hands of my mother
Slice crescents of beetroot, polish
A diamond of semolina from the grains of wheat,
To me they pass the secrets of duration.
Note:
Dar-il-Yahud (Arabic: "The Jews' court"): One of the two Jewish neighbourhoods in Baghdad.