He is still leaning, without arms, on legs doomed to be broken. His profession is lively death, solitude and cold. He remembers nothing from his far past, except for birds’ songs, the rustle of pale leaves, the bubble of a rivulet, an axe and two poor hands. He listens to the sounds of creeping ants and hears all speeches, but says nothing. Here he is sitting, groaning with no voice and wishing a virgin breeze. Yet, when secrets rain over him, he just buries them into the stone.
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.
The old wooden rocker was rustic and worn; no one could remember the year it was born. It rocked with one partner for decades of years but now it was silenced, and all were in tears. Its faithful old rider
The olde wooden rocker was rustic and worn; no one could remember the year it was born. It rocked with one partner for decades of years but now it was silenced and all were in tears. The faithful old rider