Can't you hear, in our throats' echoes, the silence
the cry that does not relent, does not release-
of the heads
from whose number a hand was left
to
knead our lives
Can't you see
lining up behind our faces
the trains that have carried us
on a journey ordained from then and there
Their whistle is our canopy
a pillar of smoke leading us
to
the far ends of the wind
Translated from the Hebrew by the author, with Peter Cole
Partisan
Heview
Visil us at
www.
partisan
.org
