AT A HOTEL
Mother and Father begin to die within me.
Thirty years after their stormy death
they steal away quietly from my rooms
and my hours of grace.
I know for sure the voices have ceased
and things are free. And bearing no grudge,
they will no longer visit my home. After all
a living man needs to stand here alone. Somewhere
Father wakes up now, shuffles in his sandals
and as usual pretends he doesn't see
how mother wipes her tears
as she knits a warm sweater
for her son on his way, at the way station.
from Tazpiot (Observations) (Sifriyat HaPoalim, 1977)
translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut.