Oh, if I had a son, a little son,
with black curled hair and clever eyes,
A little son to walk with in the garden
under morning skies
a son,
a little son.
I’d call him Uri, little laughing Uri,
a tender name, as light, as full of joy
as sunlight on the dew, as tripping on the tongue
as the laughter of a boy –
“Uri”
I’d call him.
And still I wait, as mother Rachel waited,
or Hannah at Shiloh, she the barren one,
until the day comes when my lips whisper,
“Uri, my son.”
Printed in The Plough Women: Memoirs of the Pioneer Women of Palestine, ed. Rachel Shazar (New York: Herzl Press, 1975). Used with permission of Herzl Press.
