TEL AVIV 1948-2008 Poem by Charles Ducal

Memory is cut away
with a festive blade.
Then, in proverbs swathed,
the head is placed on the table,

the smell of sweetness in a circling swarm
of chatter and irritating queries.
The head gives no reply, tells us
what is right, given the stories

that lie buried under centuries of will.
It is merely a matter of digging and freeing
them for what they promised to fulfill.
What once stood has been blown clear

of the tongue, pure and white.
Were people once made to flee,
from here, where happiness falls from the sky?
Now is the time, the time of feasts.

The flies buzz, and it matters

not in the least.