Jerusalem

by Tatiana Shcherbina
translated by J. Kates

Bougainvillea, too scarlet too, too pink,
stones the color of hummus, half-circles of hills.
Thick trunks of olive trees stand on the ramparts of Gethsemane,
leaves quivering like sensors.
In the maze of the bazaar bright colors and cries
as if parrots had flocked here for breakfast.
Mea Shearim is an anthill of officious bustling,
identical black hats and black bodies
weighted down with a ton of packages:
a conveyor-belt for children — of food, clothing, toys,
and soon enough books, although it’s always the same Book.
The stalls of religious objects are empty, elegant,
like expensive European boutiques —
mezuzot, spinning tops, tallit and silver candlesticks
something for everyone, but we can’t afford fur hats.
Jaffa, David HaMeleh — ordinary streets,
only the houses are the color of hummus — Jerusalem stone
in its old age it is young, like tawny fudge.
In the Muslim Quarter of the Old City,
a row of shops — this is the Via Dolorosa,
in the concentrated circles of Jerusalem
there is no room to chase after life as after beauty,
There is no gate marked “exit,”
and the gate marked “entrance” is bricked up.
Here life is the expectation of a miracle, and the miracle is that life is possible