So much depends on

A pot of soup

Kubeh red

Of my grandmother Naima.

 

Put on the fire the pot and also pour in it water

To bring close the rivers of Babylon to your grandchildren,

A consolation in the exile of Jerusalem.

Dar-il-Yahud disappeared a long time ago.

Also your hands are gone. The hands of my mother

Are slicing crescents of beetroot, are polishing

A diamond of semolina from the grains of wheat.

They pass to me secrets of duration.