Translation is by Jacob Sloan
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The wind is swooping. China jugs
And copper drum a chorus loud.
Trussed up like a fowl, the trees
Beat their wings upon the ground.
The quarter flickers with its lightning.
Saws are its music’s peak.
So it sings. Cordova’s lions
Never made it Songs of Zion.
The city flickers. From the darkness
Sparks on a ship reply.
The song of Israel was never
Its howling jackal or its lyre.
But see how fond the people are
Of their city! The wind swoops
Across the harbor. Shutters rattle.
The climate is keen and good.
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