I cannot offer you, my land,
In praise, heroic deeds;
One tree I planted on the way
Which to the Jordan leads.
One narrow path to my feet yields,
Which runs across the fields.
I know how humble are the gifts
The child offers her mother:
A cry of joy one glorious day,
When shines the sun in splendor;
And, shed for you, a secret tear
To see the shabby clothes you wear.
A another translation:
I have not sung to you, my homeland,
and I have not praised your name
with heroic deeds,
with the spoils of battle.
Only a tree—did I plant with my hands
by the calm banks of the Jordan.
Only a path—did my feet tread
over the fields.
So very meager—
I know this, motherland,
so very meager
is your daughter’s offering:
just the outburst of a joyful cry
at the daylight’s splendor,
just tears hiding the leaves
of your poverty.
© Rachel Bluwstein