It was a quiet evening.
In the window a pitcher of honey
was fading away.
On the table – a saltcellar with salt.
Delilah’s knees were white and rounded
and Samson’s lips
were thick, but sad.
Everything had already happened:
the wife,
the lion,
the honey.
He had breathed fire into 300 foxes,
carried the gates of a sleeping city
on his shoulders up Mount Hebron at dawn,
struck down a thousand men
with the jawbone of a donkey,
kissed valleys
and carried mountains in his arms.
Everything had already happened.
Oh, you woman of the Sorek Valley, see!
I am strong
but I am sorrowful!
Deliver me!
Diminish me!
Do you see these locks of hair?
Come, and cut them off:
bind my hands,
bind my feet!
I want to be like you,
like all of you,
like everyone.
I want to be afraid of a lion,
and I want to kneel before a mountain!

Oh, you woman of the Sorek Valley!
and Samson kissed Delilah’s knee,
and Samson wept on her knee.