Monday, March 17, 2008

At the lecture

I want to cry into your breasts.
Before, without being aware,
my hands on your hills,
fingers pressing your tailbone,
tears of joy.
I hold you tightly.
On stage
many people are talking
but few listen.
Brisk sentences,
lots of emotion.
I take off my cloth, [drape them] on you,
ready for the wave's return.
During the High Holy Days
the sea is flat,
I hide inside my embarrassment
taking my pleasure.

( Thank you Liza Katz for the translation of "אני" )

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