I am generally firm in my belief that it is only poets who should translate poetry; I am not a poet, but this poem has been very present with me, for historical reasons, since I first read it this summer and so I’m giving it a go. With a sounding of the obligatory *draft klaxon* here’s where I”m up to:
Zion, let me begin by asking: How are you?
Is everything alright? How have your captives fared? Your Palestinians? Your Jews?
Tell me: How are the children? Zion, are your enemies at peace?
Zion, won’t you ask after me?
I don’t feel so well.
My right hand has withered,
my nerves inflamed.
Don’t ask.