I am just a thread. I came out of the fibers of a tree older than letters, or – maybe – out of a cotton plant thrown by chance winds into a field where stones, flowers, thorns and wheat multiply, or perhaps I’d been dropped from a squirrel’s fur sitting on a chestnut tree in a forest of shadows and cold, or from hunch of a she-camel always running after its shade through deserts curves, or probably from the wool of a lamb which had passed inside an old book. I am just a thread which had been tanned by the sun, stealing its color from a transient rainbow.
And here, from the defiles of history and places, threads and tales dangle down; silk threads coming out of a cocoon standing on the edge of earth; Kashmiri threads swimming in seas of whiteness; cotton threads residing in the closets of Pharaoh’s women, and in linen, cannabis and feathers of migrating birds; soft threads just like water, light threads like whispers, screaming threads like a distress call, and hard threads like diamond stones. Still, I am just a thread, looking since my first cry for a spot inside an embroidered painting, consecrated for a wall which is consecrated for fall. I am a mere thread, looking since the first whoop, for a path inside a needle’s hole, to reside into the shawl of my beloved, who dwells in the impossible.
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.
Don’t remember when it happened A year ago or a few, But a strange thing has happened And, for me, a very new. It all started with a prologue, As it always does, A prologue very interesting, For the both
The unwed moon rowing like a swan on blue lake after making love to silence. Dignified shadows walk on black beach gathering white heels. Only lunatics will sing in shapeless lines. Who cares for a sequence? The milk of love