All those little seeds littering
The ground, the dirty sky, the ripples
Of the lake, the boulders and
The rough bark, the rough stipples
Of thoughts that do not reach peace,
It is, for sure, one, that
Creates, in your visible
Night sky, the indigo,
Without it you grow ill, you
Require intubation, your clothes
Are strewn, your volumes are askew.
This was the story of your mother,
It is the story of the boy
Who doesn’t speak your language.
There is an ocean and a buoy.
You do not see the ocean and
You do not hear the buoy. The ships
Sail. You know the feeling of
The deck, the rearings and the dips.
A wave is coming, it is ten
Stories high, otherwise,
You never would have been so brave
To see that beauty with your eyes.
Yaacov David Shulman