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How could the wise of heart envisage the final outcome of the matter,
Seeing that, when he was just a quarter of a year old, they placed him in the bulrushes?
None has arisen like him amongst the…
When the cool, colorful, gentile Sundays come,
both sit—Valenti, the watchman from my courtyard
and his pock-marked, redmouthed, piggish old lady
back-to-back on a wooden bench.
Both of them gaze…
our lightless awful days are passing
splinters of memories prick our brains
daily our Creator beats us using both hands
we are his dry weeds husked to the core
for us fire is no fire for us it is…
Are you Avraham’s, Yitzhak’s, Yaakov’s?
Are you my mother’s god?
What’s mine of all this?
What did I take by force of hand
and why am I alone
in a city meant to be my city
on account of a mother born…