She is the first and last woman; Her hair is one thousand color waterfalls, nature briefed in her two almond eyes, her eyebrows two gardens riding on astonishment whispers, her cheeks two apples rolling down from Paradise always fleeing away and never coming back.
She is the first and last woman; Her mouth is the shape of the ever wished kiss along the roads from the far beginning to the far end, her shoulders two white fillies, her bosom the timed pomegranate always about to explode. Her wrist is a thin thread wrapped around erecting necks of wild geese, her legs ivory stairs binding land’s heart with the heart of the impossible.
She is the first and last woman; From her feet Earth is hanging, on her locks poets swing, from her ears Muses dangle. Her eye-lashes are the air-fans for gods on top of old heights. At her voice violins dance, her breaths are shepherds’ flutes.
She is the first and last woman; She is the most beautiful vain up to pains’ last limits, She is everything, without residues. She is the body which ever rebels against physics. She is bitter honey. She is the nothing condensed in a cocoon. She is the anything scattered in directions all. She is the nymph born every day to dwell into nights. She is the eternal being, opening mornings and hearts, breaking down gates guarded by fire.
She is the first and last woman; She is the ever existing being, not born yet, but who never dies.
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.
That essence Those hands, that body that caresses who breastfeeds us that gives us life starting an eternal struggle who always leaves his teachings Their loves his consolations That essence that multiplies in the sister, in the aunt, in the
the winds are becoming numbing needles to my skin again. the whistling of the night is entering the day covering up the sun to my happiness. the bullying was a distant memory from my mind now fresh to my soul.
allow me this privilege of seeing you in , the unlit room in a chilly night, alone and guiltless, as night unmask your face, assumed Venus in the cowl shawl, splendor on the door it would admit, the dream of