When rabbit hunters come from distances
with smiling guns and moustaches,
he plays the flute deep and painful,
closing its helpless holes as if his eyes.
And as the night stinks of meat, fire and victory,
He lies on a thick bed that hides undisclosed keys and wet eyes,
among the many layer of secrets.
Dismantling the dear, old cycle into independent entities,
he makes strong statements about memory
on mornings that supersede grief.
No point searching for him behind the lost round glasses,
Feel him in that stretch to pick up cigars from the top of the door frame.
Not even in the robes of a mediator who unknowingly passes
the gifted word from one tongue to another lips*.
What my grandfather likes is to
Slowly disappear down the slope of hills,
Turning each empty rabbit hole into a meditation;
without reducing the world into a mere instrument of existence.
*- Yehuda Amichai in “And We Shall Not Get Excited”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem