Years ago, at the end of the Song of Deborah,
I heard the quiet of Sisera’s chariots, which were late in coming,
As I looked at Sisera’s mother watching at the window,
A woman whose hair had a silver streak.

A spoil of diverse colors of needlework
Diverse colors of needlework on both sides meet for the necks of them that
      take the spoil, the maidens saw’
At that very moment he lay like a sleeper in the tent;
His hands were very empty.
On his chin, traces of milk, butter, and blood.

The quiet was not shattered by the horses and the chariots;
The maidens also fell silent, one after the other.
My silence touched their silence. 
After a while, the sun set.
After a while, the twilight went out.

Forty years – the land was calm.  Forty years
Horses did not gallop and dead horsemen did not stare with glassy eyes.
But she died a short time after her son’s death.

 


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