Jerusalem

Cool stones, silent stones, and warm stones.
Silent streets, noisy streets.
Quiet nights, noisy nights.

Dark streets, history built in blood
and from Mt. Olives I see the dome.
I can hear the Prayer of my people from the Wall for
the last thousand years to a God who has deserted us.

The stones tell histories, long histories, short histories,
histories of the stones.

In my early years I walked the night in narrow streets,
to go and pray in symbols. The silence
of thousand years spoke in the stones.

I can't forget the silence of the spring.
In the underground, the belly of the mountain
carrying the river of the history of silence.

Only the symbols of the stone
and the exile, the self-exile, my exile
from Jerusalem.

City of a thousand years, a thousand nights,
a thousand days, clear sky, blue sky
of the exile.

Only the silence of the stones, left stones
for a thousand years' silence, in the exile
only the silence is the symbol of the
stones.