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