Mornings she practises constant walking

And purifying her mind,

How to overcome the forces of the attack

In the winter that arrives.

A long breath and incantation goes and comes

Solidified together into the new conviction:

I’m capable of all this.

In the streets greying children pass by

And she remembers how she spoke mythology, but they spoke Yiddish

And that the Himalayas are embossed in her, when they have only Mount Hermon.

There’s no air at home and page upon page surround her footsteps

From the balcony she throws a line to the moon

And the light that’s too little for the joy required,

For the will to attrition against the frozenness of the season.

When the wardrobe door gives way and the glass smashes

A second door slams and she’s already

In the wood under the sun among the mass of pygmies

so as not to remember

threatening mountains.

And once more, besieged aside from the miracle of the bird

And the rock that rests beneath her.

She’s no longer returning

To all she could have when the light lit up and stripped

Evil spirits from their holding places. The glass and the cold and the rise

And faith she was capable of all this

Give way beneath the recognition of what sticks

Sorrow even when you tell it to: go out, go away.

Published in Mashiv HaRuach  29. vl. and in Makor Rishon , September 2009.

Translated by: Atar Hadari

Read Hebrew version: כל זה