Type: Poem

“And I believe her, / as I march with her colors. / Next time she’ll march with mine…”

“But still, the waves murmur your name…”

“Listen to the still small voice whispering your name…”

“What about welcoming the / stranger, I whisper…”

“And I wish / The fields of Israel’s kalaniot — red poppies — / Were all that were needed to generate peace”

“When did the word ‘love’ become a trigger?”

“What is a painter? / A witness (often flawed) who tries to repair / a shadow, the angle of a shoulder?”

“The ones who say Zionism is a dirty word, / The ones who choose death on your account, / They only see the ‘ism.'”

“Later, alone, she taught herself the art / of painting flower portraits. I learned that part…”