Her hand is choice where his should be uprooted
So often checking, according to season
For the sense that evades any reason.
Her weariness is constantly between her lips
At the hour time traps the sunsets
That pass from one crown to another
From scarlet to white hot, from turmeric to swearing by some object.
Her own indications give her
A feeling. Confirmation
Until it’s sufficient for her that now
She is entirely out of counting.
Translated by: Atar Hadari
Read Hebrew Version: סימנים משלה