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Prague
lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively
close to the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk
carefully, our shoulders stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome
rainbow at the end of the hesitant rain. Prague rains itself
on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on a thousand immolated
golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to the river.
We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind
exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore.
We are not sure whether they will stay connected if we do.
It
is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic
sounds interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret
after turret, I re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that
city, which is not Arab, nor Jewish, not entirely modern,
nor decidedly antique that I met her.
And
the pain was strong.
Copyright
© 2000
Sam Vaknin
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I
wrote, Sally Ann, I wrote:
Shot
from the cannon of abuse
as unwise missiles do.
Course
set.
Explosive
clouds that mark
your video destination.
Experts
interpret,
pricking with laser markers,
inflated dialects
of doom.
Hitting
the target, you
splinter, a spectacle
of fire and of smoke.
The
molten ashes,
the cold metallic remnants,
the core...
A
peace accord
between you and your self.
Copyright
© 2000
Sam Vaknin
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The
Toxic
waste of bottled anger
venomized.
Life belly up.
The reeds.
The wind is hissing
death
downstream,
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.
Copyright
© Sam Vaknin
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Tell
me about your sunshine
and the sounds of coffee
and of barefeet pounding the earthen floor
the creaking trees
and the skinned memory of hugs
you gave
and you received.
Sit
down, yes, here,
the intermittent sobbing
of the shades
slit by your golden face.
Now
listen to the hundred children
that are your womb.
I
am among them.
Copyright
© Sam Vaknin
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