“From our roof you can see Tel Aviv, and then the sea.”
The evening in the distance speaks the tongue of fire
Empty canisters glitter in the field
The shines always in the next country but in our country
Darkness has no ration limit
We translate the Hill of Spring in our language of snow
Night lies down here on our roof in August
Listen to the sound of the fountains on the other side of the wall
A long time before we had any argument about historiography
each woman here grew wild thyme in the bullet-laden garden
Each man measured in his mind the distance between his jail cell
and the eastern shore of the sea