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
