Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | October 30, 2008


by Moses Ibn Ezra (ca. 1055 – after 1135).


O Brook


O brook, whose hurrying waters go

To the far land that holds my friend,

By thee, my greeting let me send;

And if thy waves seem red as blood,

Tell him my tears have stained thy flood;                  5

The mingled drops of eye and heart,

For exile, and for love, they flow—

Exile and love, that rend the frame

Of them who dwell from friends apart.


O brook, bespeak him tenderly;                                 10

Fill thou his heart with thought of me,

So that usurper may not claim

My place therein.

Make him to know

That for his ransom I would give                                15

What years I yet may have to live—

Or if my life be all too little worth,

That which I hold most precious upon earth.


(Translated by Solomon Solis-Cohen)



Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: