The whiteness in a black-spotted dove flies away from my head, each time war wakes up; A voice falls down from a window staring into emptiness, which is jammed with fragileness and trivialities, and crashes on the cracked street. Rust climbs up on garden trees loosening their hair, pouring out their dyes, selling their water and airs at the middle of the road. A mint sapling liquefies into green saliva flowing in sewer. Camels, carrying salt, water and tribal enthusiasm, perish out of thirst and snarling at the edge of the desert. Packs of sacred coins elevate, scentless, towards the digital circle of a spiral at the same age of Cain’s dagger. Angels deliver messages at the exchange market. An indifferent donkey chews history books carried upon his cross painted on his back, since the Flood dried away. Then, while the river sticks to denial and keeps forgetting shadows passing through, while rust puts its final touch on the road-map towards nothingness, a boy gets out of his burnt skin, recollects his smile which had mindlessly fallen beneath hurrying boots during the last war. The white-black spotted dove settles down inside the barrel of a wrecked cannon. Exactly at this moment, war wakes up once again.
I am 58 years old, from eastern Galilee, Israel (Palestine). I studied English literature, psychology and Law at the Hebrew university (Jerusalem). In the last three years, I published three books of which is dedicated to prose poetry. You are invited to visit the Facebook page Shadows of Water, where I publish my prose poems I translate to English.
Hoisting the bisexuality on a figurine, I crawl back to anxiety. The primitive instinct was taking over the stitches on a snake. What do you want from a moon for the drooling mouth of a seashell? Braiding the breasts against
The need of the hour is peace As the consequences of war are not like breeze Countries are grouping, so are the citizens Unity is strengthening, but, against other unions Deployment takes place to deplore another state The death of
At evenings, Sun puts off her light as usual and goes behind a curtain woven by sea, rock and trees, so to have a break. Meanwhile, those with black heads and scattered hair go to warm themselves at the ember