On the road from Jerusalem, while echoes of the horn are still tearing down the walls of Jericho, I recline on a table of sand. Sparrows cry joyfully to me, in a space void of wedding ceremonies, picking up my face’s scattered crumbs.
Near the monastery, hiding from the highway by two old palm-trees and one hundred lies, there passes a saint of paper riding on the back of a lion made of goats’ hair .Beside the road there is a traffic policeman, void of heart, standing on the corpse of a sparrow.
He says: “the bird has fallen down from a skyscraper in Manhattan”.
But, there was nothing at the place, except for a stair of salty air.
The lake of Galilee is fenced by mixed cats, rats and nylon sacks. Yesterday, I met with Christ, as he was walking on the roof of the sea which is standing on its head; in one hand he held a skeleton of an old fish, breathing smoke, while in the other hand there was the scent of an ancient loaf of bread.
He said to me:
“My wound had been left open, so flocks of flies are still landing on it.”
In that cavern, where ‘Lot’ copulated with his own two daughters, wine is still spilled on the rock, beneath trade placards. Speedy cars pour dust on that time standing under the sun, then flee away behind the road curve. At the bottom of the last script, I register my sorrow caused by a hallucinating history.
Then, when the desert settles down in my heart, temptations take the color of pure red and the shape of rifles. The cave’s guard says to me: “Satan has migrated from here and dwells now inside glass castles”. So, I stood up and walked towards Jerusalem, bathed by a remote rain and a cloud of sand.
At the southern gates of Jericho, a heap of stones is still sitting, three thousand years so far. An old woman, covered by a dress she borrowed from the last rainbow passing here, drags Balaam’s jenny, on whose back stands a black-white TV, slips down from the hairless mountain and goes inside the wrinkles of the furrowed earth.
A sun goes out from the threads of a tale, still standing on the hood of Joshua Ben-Noon. There I look for my forehead, but finds out that it has evaporated in the space of the refugee camp.