Slept nearby the thorny birds
Nearby slept the birds
Telling the story
while singing folk sonnets.
we’re singing the story
About the city Yafa
when my grandmother was young
She was congealed by history
Guarded by the poor and she’s young
She was picking figs that day
And picked along some months and years and one single day
She saw on his animated face
His face, and some “news” that lacked the face
She looked back at where we were
And the marina looked farther than ever and we were
Like evening stars
but rather started to melt
along with our favorite nights
And the sun was though still coming down hard
I said: “give me the basket and wait for me on the mountain side.” She said: “In your seventh dream that will be,
the basket is full of halls
and doesn’t hold water!”
And Water wouldn’t hold in halls!
When we got to the mountain,
pheasants were awaiting for us and it was the “day,”
a bit before late afternoon.
we hid near the ledges, with dry sore throats and a moon,
peaking and sneaking on us,
and with us
along with the moon.
burned were all the fig trees,
and gone like an easy sap of spring water!
The same water that doesn’t hold any water.