So much depends upon
Of my grandmother Naima’s
Red kubbeh soup.
Put the pot on the fire and pour in the water
To bring close to your grandchildren the rivers of Babylon,
A comfort in Jerusalem in exile.
Dar-il-Yahud disappeared a long time ago.
Your hands are also gone. The hands of my mother
Slice crescents of beetroot, polish
A diamond of semolina from the grains of wheat,
To me they pass the secrets of duration.
Dar-il-Yahud (Arabic: "The Jews' court"): One of the two Jewish neighbourhoods in Baghdad.