The city changed. The mountains became sea, the cold whisper of war turned into the stale warm weather of sex and dog feces, the wide house changed into keys that changed hands and borrowed rooms with sheets that mustn’t be stained, and nonetheless I ate pomegranates in bed.
All summer long bodies piled up in my mind and now they decay in dreamless nights, tearing a hole in time closed with rough claws . I didn’t want to write poetry, I still refuse, but how do you translate fear?
Ayala Netzer / Painting