(1) Behind the window, when clouds descend down over houses planted into mud, and seeds wake up, clock-hands go back to zero. Cottony fogs veil visions, so we might look inside, then I see a dewy dove carrying an olive bough from the end of earth.
Behind the window, I put on the concealment-hat; men dangle down from their umbrellas at the near street; clothes’ robes commit nudity on the roofs; a lonely bird takes the shape of a hedgehog wearing a suit of fluffy feathers and guards the electricity cables, while faraway, grey lights declare an old weakness, and at the blurry horizon, a mouse-colored smoke ascends up, looking for its origins in the remote forests.
(3) Behind the window, I try to be what I am. A woman whom I don’t know tells me that winter throws us into a book and covers us by a piece of music coming from the house corners. So, I try to be what I should be, but a last summer-fly scatters me when it falls on the cold glass, searching for an exit from its murderous loneliness.
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.
Two score years down the ages, the day was just like the one before; the Sun rose in a solemn brilliance just like the day before, but with a peculiar aura: beaming with an infectious brilliance Thus attracting everyone and
A way to the outer world from inside Is the window – an agent certified; Gloomy, depressed, woeful world Is made happy with a small riptide Which comes to the sight of bide Who live in and try to bestride
We left too much behind. A milky moon floating in our coffee Unbuttoned thoughts A mason jar filled with sunshine, And words. Words that still float mid air waiting to be spoken, incomplete, cracked, dusty Do you remember any? And