Yes, this is really a love poem,

a song of envy and fear,

a wrinkled man on his chair in a robe,

perhaps writing, or reading

looking at himself, summing up his life.

What will you think then my daughter

of your father shirking

his responsibilities and habits and job

out of inertia and lack of foresight.

Will it still be possible in so direct a transmission

to balance the eye, to make the heart tremble.

Can we still comfort each other in distress

avoid malice and lies and envy and madness

and can I speak to you of rivers and seas

far away lands and multicolor birds?






The yellow roses behind the transparent wall

and the trickling music of the harp like a waterfall

whose source dims memories of distant distress,

of a body draining out the dregs of life

in streets drenched with boiling anger.

Even here her green eyes are wide open,

scorch my back, stare through things,

pierce through the lechery of matter.

Soon I will be informed that she has been

transformed to a column of smoke,

leading me from now until forever.

This was just a warning.




Come, let's sit on the bench, facing the station,

facing the wall, our backs to the wind.

Look, the sky has reddened and the tower sinks,

disappears in the red of the clay.

Look, manikins sit on Temple Mount

where birds of prey draw in their nails,

asking for food and feather padding.


I ask of myself and you may be the judge

between me and myself, between me and you:

Are you the one descending to a baseness

that stirs up golden foam and a rage of dark desires

blazing on the walls of the hollow aquarium?


Are you the one who falls into the prophecy

bubbling fatalistic-like sweetness

summeriness promising departure

from the crowd stink

that strains in the folds of your body,

returning the breath to your nose,

and adrenalin to the arterial system?


I heard once please listen a mourner

who said: the silver royal partridge

grew such a large feather tail,

that its walk became heavy

and it fell victim to its devourers.


Even now, after all that,

I don't know if the gust of wind

is not from the door of the plane

wide open before a free fall, before the clouds

disappear into the blue and the soft sands

spread palely out from under us.





Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut