for the first anniversary of the death of Asher Reich, the Writers’ Union is holding a memorial evening.  I’m set to read this poem I translated 40 years ago:

OUR BLOOD IS THE WORLD’S PETROL

The day passes.  We’ve gained some time.

Our days pass by in trash dreams.

Once I knew a boy

who waited for his life

and found his death.

His death

leavening

was a warning shot to me.

A dozing generation that awaits a miracle.

Waits in vain to the end of its strength.

Wait.  Maybe somewhere

in the ground of the seventh heaven

the best of our pilots

will discover cosmic oil.

Our blood is the world’s petrol.

of course i read it in hebrew.