We who shout beneath the water, swirl airbells
onto the bely of the fish,vibrating, like a Fata-
Morgana, - sore are our throats but we keep on
singing, feet like fins, kick in the froth, - we
who do not drown, but do not swim iether -
we who never cry who grew in the greenhouse of
bravery-songs, and the young wars in the foto
albums - we, beat about like fish in the sand ...
once, once there were trenches here, - and my
Dad, he too was a soldier in sandals
on a snapshot, at home at Sarah's - this being
before the mine, the big flood and Noach, - then
the animals slowly came off the boat, later they
learned to sing and danced the Hora around the
fires of Lag-Baomer, - once, here, they very
quickly learned to swim - and the ones who were
lost, fill the chambers of the sea - look at me
from below, upwards, - and I keep silent,
while my mouth slowly fills with salty water -
Nomi Ben-David
