When I was a little boy, I used to run up to the end of the earthen road and run back homeward; in my hand an open-lipped astonished fig berry, a few apricot stones and some body-scars. At those days, I was the owner of a small decorated time, which I used to stretch up to day ends, wrap at evening around my fingers, and hide at night under my cushion, which was stuffed with bran and fantasies.
But, when I went into fables, wherewith everything I touch turns to gold and diamond, and my pockets overflow with hard currency and my eyes with flashes, then my small time dropped down and smashed to pieces.
I am looking for somebody to weld my small time’s fragments. Here, I am concealing my hands into my pockets. That is because I’m worried; if I touch the air, it might become a diamond cage. If I hug my mother, her hymns might become noisy needles. If I touch our rose, just two blossoms older than me, its fragrance might turn to golden thorns into my throat.
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.
My fellow Americans, The hour is dark. Hence I stand before you With a heavy heart. Something is coming, Something man has never seen – An attack lacking precedent Within the pages of history. As you all well know, We
One time above a little shop, An old greengrocer climbed on top, Despite himself he could not stop, The world had changed forever. The fruit of that old grocers loins, Became obsessed with notes and coins, She knew the club
This road trip to moon will not end through the shards of shattered, small prints of sleep. A ravaged nest lived behind tomorrow in necklace of past apologies. Hanging by fan was ending of today. We talked of dirty nights