When she kills with her glances,
her speech restores to life, as tho she,
in giving life thereby, were Jesus.
The smooth surface of her legs is (like) the Tora in brightness,
and I follow it and tread in its footsteps as tho' I were Moses.
She is a bishopess, one of the daughters of Rome,
unadorned: thou seest in her a radiant Goodness.
Wild is she, none can make her his friend;
she has gotten in her solitary chamber
a mausoleum for remembrance.
She has baffled everyone who is learned in our religion,
every student of the Psalms of David,
every Jewish doctor, and every Christian priest.
If with a gesture she demands the Gospel,
thou wouldst deem us to be priests
and patriarchs and deacons.
The day when they departed on the road,
I prepared for war the armies of my patience, host after host.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem