The creak of the doors leading in to the Temple
–The intimate chamber, the Holy of Holies–
Resounds for a distance–for eight times the distance–
That one is permitted to walk on Shabbat.

The scent of the frankincense burned on the altar
–The cinnamon, saffron; the cassia, myrrh–
Is smelled for a distance–a ten parsa distance–
Jerusalem-Jericho, traveled by foot.

The goatherds of Jericho’s gated-in grazing ones
–Speckled and spotted, give Glory to God!–
Sneeze tickled in nostril–a goat-a-choo nostril–
When breathing in frankincense wafted on high.

The brides of Jerusalem’s sages and scholars
–The henna-haired gazed-ats, gazelle-like in womb–
Purveyed not a perfume–forewent every fragrance–
The cinnamon, saffron; the cassia, myrrh.

My father raised goats in the high hills of Michmar
–Raised he-goats and she-goats and get-at-your-goats–
Who sneezed in a tempest–a lift-your-lamp tempest–
Who shuddered in pleasure from frankincense, myrrh.

An old man once told me: I went once to Shiloh
–The city of ruins, the mishkan dismantled–
I rested my face (My) between her two walls (God!)
The cinnamon, saffron! The cassia, myrrh!