Chains of cormorants again
rustle above my head: silent
fowl, linked and snug
in tight formation, rising
and falling in the soft night sky.
My feet pound dust on the loamy path,
but my head takes flight, following my gaze,
flying with them to the Carmel, northwards,
and beyond. Snug and silent like
a voiceless fowl: I throw half a glance
to the Valley of Tears below me.
My Poems are Wrapped in Darkness
Like a migrant Thai worker I pedal
my bicycle on the village path. Hunched over, dark,
my face covered against the dust. The dogs bark at me,
the bees slam into my forehead, and the scent
of a distant homeland assaults my nostrils.
And like his letters home, silverplating
the sweat of his brow, my poems too are wrapped
with the darkness that covers the land of my longing.
My poems, the products of my emotions,
the products of my thoughts, the products
of my inspiration, the products of my brain
and of my heart – they are my offering,
my individual contribution,
my unique and peculiar contribution,
my generous contribution –
to this old and ancient profession,
this ancient profession of poetry,
this ancient profession of poesy:
the ancient profession of trading in words.
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