Sunday, November 28, 2004

Sunday's poem

I've written all day long
And these winter days
Linger for just too short
I'm unread as yet, tho'
And too young for love, therefore
I still long for those days, somehow
Where there was anyone at all to talk
As a poet I live too much alone
And I'm no good at telling stories
Lest when I'm alone
Of Jerusalem I write only fiction
And the sea is a story of Greek love
I'm a lonely young poet
But there's comfort:
In the world of thoughts
A Jew is never alone.
And in my mind
I see paintures and momenta
Of interesting stories
Of the foretold
That entice my young soul
Maybe I need companion
A less interesting life
And more talk
But who am I to predict the future?
See, without even imagining
I saw a ghost, a few hours ago
I believed him to be slain
In a play no one wrote
And I'm unable to talk on behalf of God
He and I aren't talking anymore
He must be woman, tho'
What an imagination he's got!
And of my woes he's kept no account
Therefore, I gather he didn't do university
For historian he's clearly not
But neither did I anyway
Yet a bit I understand
About this crazy world
And as long as I can write
I'll linger about and remain alive
And probably live even after I die
It's a beautiful witner's night
But I must run and hide
Maybe tomorrow
I'll be borne to the light
And not frighten from my own life.

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