This sheet on Leviticus 14 was written by Yakov Azriel for 929 and can also be found here
My husband is a leper.
The smell of ruptured putrid boils
That cover his decomposing flesh
And infect his rotting skin
Repulses even the flies.
My husband is a leper.
The bell around his neck clanks and clinks,
Warning all who might come near,
As if he were an ox that gores.
“Impure! Impure!” he lisps as he limps.
My husband is a leper.
Children, crueler than the dogs that growl at him,
Throw stones and spit;
“Filth! Pig!” they snarl, “Go back to your cesspool!”
But I,
I chase away the children and the dogs;
I accompany my husband as he inches along,
Supporting him, walking with him arm in arm.
Each morning I wake up early, go to the village well
And bring back fresh, cool water to wash the pus
From his legs, his arms, his eyes,
Then bind his wounds with clean, white gauze.
Because his fingers — disjointed and swollen —
Cannot hold a fork or knife,
I feed my husband as if he were a child,
As he sits in the dust and ashes.
And my fingers have grown nimble and skilled
When I search his hair for lice by candlelight,
Night by night.
“Do not stay with me,” my husband stammers
As I scrape his boils with a potsherd;
“Give me up, live a better life,” he begs.
“Do not ask me to leave you,” I answer
And hold his hand in mine;
“Wherever you go, I will go,
Wherever you lodge, I will lodge.
Do not speak as one of little faith;
You will yet heal, I know this.
You will leap from cliff to cliff,
Like a gazelle on mountains of frankincense.
You will build us a house of polished ivory
And plant us vineyards and orchards and gardens of spices;
We will go down together to gather our lilies
That grow in our bed of sweet herbs.”
My husband weeps when I comfort him,
When I place his head on my lap
And gently stroke his mangy hair;
I whisper to him that he is like a cluster of henna,
bag of myrrh that lies between my breasts.
“And one day,” I promise him,
“One day I will bear you a child.”
My husband is a leper.
But I will never leave him,
I will never abandon
This husband,
Whom I love,
Israel.
The smell of ruptured putrid boils
That cover his decomposing flesh
And infect his rotting skin
Repulses even the flies.
My husband is a leper.
The bell around his neck clanks and clinks,
Warning all who might come near,
As if he were an ox that gores.
“Impure! Impure!” he lisps as he limps.
My husband is a leper.
Children, crueler than the dogs that growl at him,
Throw stones and spit;
“Filth! Pig!” they snarl, “Go back to your cesspool!”
But I,
I chase away the children and the dogs;
I accompany my husband as he inches along,
Supporting him, walking with him arm in arm.
Each morning I wake up early, go to the village well
And bring back fresh, cool water to wash the pus
From his legs, his arms, his eyes,
Then bind his wounds with clean, white gauze.
Because his fingers — disjointed and swollen —
Cannot hold a fork or knife,
I feed my husband as if he were a child,
As he sits in the dust and ashes.
And my fingers have grown nimble and skilled
When I search his hair for lice by candlelight,
Night by night.
“Do not stay with me,” my husband stammers
As I scrape his boils with a potsherd;
“Give me up, live a better life,” he begs.
“Do not ask me to leave you,” I answer
And hold his hand in mine;
“Wherever you go, I will go,
Wherever you lodge, I will lodge.
Do not speak as one of little faith;
You will yet heal, I know this.
You will leap from cliff to cliff,
Like a gazelle on mountains of frankincense.
You will build us a house of polished ivory
And plant us vineyards and orchards and gardens of spices;
We will go down together to gather our lilies
That grow in our bed of sweet herbs.”
My husband weeps when I comfort him,
When I place his head on my lap
And gently stroke his mangy hair;
I whisper to him that he is like a cluster of henna,
bag of myrrh that lies between my breasts.
“And one day,” I promise him,
“One day I will bear you a child.”
My husband is a leper.
But I will never leave him,
I will never abandon
This husband,
Whom I love,
Israel.
(ב) זֹ֤את תִּֽהְיֶה֙ תּוֹרַ֣ת הַמְּצֹרָ֔ע בְּי֖וֹם טׇהֳרָת֑וֹ וְהוּבָ֖א אֶל־הַכֹּהֵֽן׃
(2) This shall be the ritual for a leper at the time that he is to be cleansed. When it has been reported to the priest,
Yakov Azriel is an English language poet who lives in Israel
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