City, that does not exist anymore

by Gali–Dana Singer
     translated by Anna Halberstadt

* * *

City, that does not exist anymore.
Blocks, that could be crossed
In one hundred ways not found on a map.
Capillary network of alleys.  Parsley and mint in cans
from olive oil.
Toilet seats in every courtyard as part of garden design.
A glass with unfinished coffee in a box with rosemary.
A half of a Shabbat challah on a low fence.
Small paper garbage strewn under feet.
Soil-resistant walls stained with mold.
Funny quiet people in worn clothes.
Loud rude voices of others, and jays.  Pants falling off.
Wrinkled paisley-patterned skirts.
Wooden shutters, colored glass,
Cardboard in place of transoms.
Time works wonders,
They’ll grow to love each other, rusty menschele and meidele.
A couple of teenagers sitting in a lotus pose
on broken pavement.
Red top-hats of Royal Mail.
The mailman comes every morning.
Faded striped canopies.
All is well, all is well.
Sloppy eucalyptus trees,
Shedding all year round.
Gloomy dusty cypresses, releasing blackbirds
At sunset.
Mutilated pine trees with glimmering cones.
Bent over figures.
Familiar tired faces of trees, stones and people.
Say hi on the go, don’t linger,
How are you?  How are you feeling?  Continue on your way.
A city, that still exists, but is already leaving.
A city, that will soon disappear.
Watch it.
Follow it.
How much has it actually changed?
Guttural cooing of dirty-pink turtledoves.  Roses, burning down
During the first khamsin.
Aphis on rose-hips.  Doors always open.
In the twilight — swifts, at sunrise — sparrows.
Parrots and mynas did not live here then.
Ministers used to walk the streets and shop.
Hedgehogs and geckoes come out at night.
The sun does not peer into my windows.
Smells or laurel, jasmine, urine and grills.
Of perspiration, dust and pita bread.
How much can one remember?
Answer all questions with — “it’s all right.”

* * *

devoted: doors, windows
unreliable: floor, ceiling, walls
loyal: glass animals
traitors: me and dead dogs

you look and don’t get it
in the blackest point of the eye
an enfilade of courtyards
is held anyhow by a thread

rooms and corridors are sown
as if for a dead person
when you see them in a dream
where else would you dream of them?

stolen: freedom
gifted: horses and people
horses mean — expect lies
people — expect people, it means
the dream was prophetic

so that in the end, and when is the end?
everything would fit not into a telescope —

but into a suspiciously simple device —
of myopic reproaching glance
of a body removing itself.

July 12 -14, 2019

* * *

A survivor’s error
is not that relevant,
a small deviation.

For example, it is common knowledge,
that all, who lived long and happily,
died.
All, who did not,
died as well.

Survived only the ones, who did not live.
What kind of life is that?

There, in semi-oblivion,
those, who had not lived their other-lives,
on dressers and shelves,
gathering dust, placed in order,
according to height,
color,
in alphabetic order,
year of publication,
not recorded in a notebook
with diagonal lines
(it seems, they are not making them anymore),
no use for anyone
but loved by us,
random thoughts
will be lost in gaps
among names
that we had called ourselves.

And still — dust
in soft silent balls
or thin even layers
or — when in a sunray —
particles are suspended trembling
is inimitable
and if you sneeze
and watch it getting scared
but still dancing in the interval
between the conclusion and the open-ended finale
and still, envy for dust
in soft silent balls
or thin even layers
or — when in a sunray —
gets guilded
does not stand a justification
in unbeing.