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I was once in Jerusalem
in December
when it snowed
like it was Montreal.
They don't have snow shovels
in Jerusalem only spades
sharpened for burying the dead,
so the snow kept piling up
the cars and buses couldn't pass
we all came out from our houses
to witness what was happening
as if it was a miracle,
stood around listening
to the unfamiliar silence
of the city that's never silent
except for one minute
on Yom Hazikaron.
The heavy wet snow
dressed the streets
in white like it was Yom Kippur;
the souks, synagogues, and mosques,
the war memorials, Yad Vashem,
Mea Shearim, Silwan, the Temple Mount,
Scopus and Sheikh Jarrah,
the Knesset, the bomb shelters
and graves all covered
in an endless spotless garment
of white.
As if in unison
we all suddenly started to play
in the snow
laughed like children
and the laughter echoed
through the narrow alleyways
in every quarter
like the call to prayer
for a new religion
and we were happy.
1 comment:
Glad that you have some positive memories of Israel (to go along with the negative ones!).
The snow -- associated with death -- is reminiscent of Joyce. And yet it somehow at the end of the poem gets transformed from a shroud into a plaything. A kind of riff on resurrection ... a new religion indeed!
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