Old Friends by Elisha Porat
This prickly rush, with whose spines
I stitched my tattered youth;
this weeping willow, played
by the wind on my secret ramblings;
this purple loosestrife, whose
pink flowers I placed on
a table for my love; they all
call to me along the path: Come,
join us, come, fade
with us into the moist morning mist.
"Don't wait for me," I
call out to them from my groaning memory,
"I am on my way, I'll be there
soon." And on my return from the stream bank
I know: They will wait,
I will come, my aging heart
is already there, with them, anticipating
me always by a few steps.
©09/09.06 Elisha Porat
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner
Excellent and very sad.
Posted by: Jennifer | June 07, 2008 at 11:40 PM
An accurate depiction of death's inevitability. Enjoyed greatly.
Posted by: Robert | June 08, 2008 at 11:08 AM
The poignancy in this cries out in a very understated - and effective - manner. A great capture, Elisha.
Posted by: aurora | June 08, 2008 at 10:41 PM