Yours O. mother,

Yours are these lines;

Tufts of lights fit butterfly’s colors

Accept them,

Yet accept me not.

Yours,

These, so gentle,

Shy, timid and devoted,

So touching,

Moving,

Faith converting!

Incarnated,

In your name,

In you innocent heeds

O. mother,

A palm tree, so graceful;

A lioness struts with pride,

Unfair pride,

Scattering conceit,

Over the galaxy.

Yours, mother

Yours alone,

All verse,

All its flirtation,

Beauty,

Snow and blaze,

And its creator.

Deserts’ yearning for clouds would Outshine its lines,

If ever burst in tears.

The gleeful nightingale

Outshines its words,

If only they cease to be.

The dawn in the orchard,

The blue harp,

And the prolonged night,

All would not outshine

The bright lines of this verse.

Line of verse,

Or pure beauty

Unwound “her” braid

Then said, “Wind, from me, learn!”

Then soon, yet years and years,

In her fingers charm danced,

When soared so high,

 Exceeding orbits, or just about,

Except for our planet stepped back

O. mother,

O. my sky, O. my garden

These lines, so perfect, all yours,

Their creator, yours.

This poem, If you wish,

A startled gazelle

Or, if you wish, a loving dove,

For you to take

Mature dates, so sweet,

Sacred olives,

For you to take,

So retain your healing fingers,

And every day,

To the east travel,

To the west travel.

About me, never worry,

Nor about darkness,

O. mother,

O Joseph’s Well,

If not unique pearls, you are,

I would think your heart,

But a spring of water, so fresh.

Rivers of honey,

your heart, So pure,

Of milk, so fresh,

Indeed an ecstasy,

A poem of thousands moons.

So rise and say:

“O. Moses’ Rod,

O. power of magic,

By lord, what magic power is mine?!”