Unlike her friends,
she can't boast a waist any more.
Her hips don't swing and sway.
She doesn't dare
to ride the wheel
and the ship of Serchnar*
as she used to when she was engaged.
She is pregnant
which is why she's prettier than the girls around her,
prettier than the men who at evening
pass by her lament.
Among the neighbourhood women,
she looks the most love-stricken
and the liveliest.
Looking at her
makes you long for watermelon.
And you learn to dream
of a baby's cry or laughter
as you knit a sock
or a little jumper.
Her waist isn't as slim
as a reedpipe any more.
The time for skirts
and for jeans
Lipstick's now ignored
along with high heels and mirrors.
Her heyday for wearing
ballgowns and swimsuits is over.
Now she talks
to her own womb.
Unaware of us or of herself.
May God make it good,
this nine-month search
on the roads of life and death.
May God make it good,
this fate which women face.