אבן

אבן / חגית מנדרובסקי

אָבִי הָיָה חוֹצֵב בָּאֶבֶן, שׁוֹאֵב מַיִם גַּם אִם אֵין

מַיִם, לְהַרְווֹת צִמְאוֹנוֹ.

הִתְבּוֹנַנְתִּי בְּיָדָיו חֲבוּטוֹת הַבֶּטוֹן, 

לְמוּדוֹת הַסִּיד וְהַסֵּבֶל.

וּכְשֶׁרָצָה לָגַעַת, הִתְמַסַּרְתִּי 

וְלֹא אִכְפַּת הָיָה לִי שֶׁכַּפּוֹת יָדָיו מְבֻקָּעוֹת וְגַסּוֹת

וּתְחוּשָׁתָן עַל הָעוֹר כְּמוֹ מְקַלֶּפֶת מִמֶּנִּי כָּל תְּחוּשָׁה.

הָעִקָּר שֶׁיִּגַּע. 

אָבִי לֹא הִרְבָּה לָגַעַת. גַּם לֹא לְדַבֵּר. 

וּכְשֶׁמֵּת, הִתְבַּקְּעוּ הַבֶּטוֹן וְהָאֶבֶן,

וְלֹא הָיָה בְּלִבִּי מִלְּבַד מַיִם, שֶׁמְּלִיחוּתָם פָּרְצָה

אֶת הַקִּירוֹת.

*מתוך 'חמלת אשת העורב'

Stone / Hagit Mendrowski

My father would quarry in stone, pump water even if there was no

Water, to quench his thirst.

I looked at his concrete-battered hands,

Accustomed to lime and hardship.

And when he wanted to touch, I gave myself over

And I didn't mind his palms being cracked and rough

And their sensation on the skin as if peeling all sensation from me.

So long as he would touch.

My father didn't touch much. Nor talk much.

And when he died, the concrete and stone cracked,

And there was naught in my heart but water, its saltiness broke 

Through the walls.

*From 'The Compassion of the Crow Woman'

*Translated by Oded Peled