Man, earth and tree in the emerging city
(Hebrew original posted here)
Snakes of aviation writhing on the dark highways slowly swallow
Green lungs. Motorized toys, the latest models,
Speed along dark carpets. The earth is casting off its vegetation
Wearing an asphalt shroud and houses behind walls that block out Soot and noise and sobbing that rises in the throat and remains
Like smoke choked between the gloomy divided buildings,
Devoid of roofs and plaster
White dust rises everywhere on the outskirts of the emerging city
A train rumbles into the heart of the city. People emerging from it Are swallowed up by the elegant mall.
Shelves of books and a crossroads of opportunity.
I write the tears
That well up wildly inside me.
A thwarted, thwarting poem, observing,
Questioning like an innocent who knows not to ask
Or learn anything wise, to speak
And to scorn, to build a place for poets in the city of the future,
To break through time,
Through the human spirit, to calm the blood, attacking
And grief-stricken in face of the sickness, the pain that tablets
Do not assuage, the fear of loss, of remaining alone
Beautiful structures emerge: cultural center, synagogue, pool
And lake, garden and park. A separate park was created for dogs
Where humans wouldn’t bother them,
Wouldn’t disturb their doggy bliss
The city’s poets also seek a place to gather together, to poetize
Launch books, clink glasses, escape from their sad desks
Loaded down with suffocated poems, melting like tears
Who cares about choking, sobbing poems?
Who cares about fading poems?
Let us not throw them away like leaves in a grey season
In the hands of the architects of time and books
The poem loses itself and passes over the doorposts of the houses
Many stanzas are written
The poet was invited to read her poems at a festival
Blessed are your houses' inhabitants and readers and destroyers,
They will be blessed. Selah.
A rock is ground up by a bulldozer.
It crumbles and fades like a man at his path’s end.
The poem’s stanzas are ground up in the pain of childbirth
The ancient carob tree sheds its dusty fruit before being uprooted
From its life path. Soon it will assume an asphalt shroud
And bridges will disappear into the distance.
Upon them cars and trains will speed
Like days, like the toy bicycles of tomorrow’s children – the drivers Of a new dawn.
And when they grip the steering wheels of time,
What of the remnants of trees
And how much water will flow through the rivers and lakes
Of human awareness?
And what of the poet? She remains afraid to touch
The deepest wound in the blood
Afraid to dig like a bulldozer finely grinding up rocks to dust
Afraid of the fear of being frightened in a thin, disappearing voice. The festival begins
But still she is here, sobbing herself to oblivion.