We present this work in honor of Yom Ha’atzmaut.
Back then the masts on the houses were
like the masts of Columbus’ ships,
and every raven that stood on their tips,
heralded a different continent.
The knapsacks of travelers walked the streets
and the language of a foreign country
pierced the heatwave
like the blade of a cold knife.
How can the air of this small city
lift up so many
childhood memories, cast off loves,
rooms emptied out somewhere?
Like pictures blackening inside a camera
they turned—pure winter nights,
rainy summer nights across the sea,
and the grey mornings of the cities.
But footsteps beat behind your back,
the marching tune of a foreign army.
And it seems—if you just turn your head, in the sea
your city’s church is sailing.