This autumn is copper, just like my voice which had escaped and hided in a dome on the banks of a sacred river. I am the one who dried it up on the braids of an African girl tanned by last summer, stored it in two baskets of sultanas and dried fig berries, to be honeyed tales sweetening promised cold griefs. I don’t remember its flavor, but I used to witness its husky rustle scattering from the eyes of almond trees and alms of my neighbors vine-plant, then sleeping into the wrinkles of earth and old folks. I do remember its waters, flying like silk bubbles, while fleeing from woods reposing on roofs. This is our autumn; its foliage a velvet song, its voice the color of ginger, its clouds a swinging cradle. Every time it blows into my hair, I become the last grain of wheat, riding on the back of the last ant, digging earth and strewing a train of golden camels.
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.