In a minute we’ll go downstairs for coffee
in the guesthouse dining room.
Our combed hair will shine and we’ll
smile very politely at the granny.
But her grandson, who stood all night burning,
with his twenty years and green eyes,
spying quivering after every whisper in our room
knows more than she does,
that beneath our spotless Sunday best,
stripped of piousness,
just inches away, within us,
there beats, like all through the night, our wolf’s heart.
Translated from Hebrew by Irit Sela, Sha’ar International Poets’ Festival, Haifa, 2013