When I banged my head on the door, I screamed,
"My head, my head," and I screamed, "Door, door,"
and I didn't scream "Mama" and I didn't scream "God."
And I didn't prophesy a world at the End of Days
where there will be no more heads and doors.
When you stroked my head, I whispered,
"My head, my head," and I whispered, "Your hand, your hand,"
and I didn't whisper "Mama" or "God."
And I didn't have miraculous visions
of hands stroking heads in the heavens
as they split wide open.
Whatever I scream or say or whisper is only
to console myself: My head, my head.
Door, door. Your hand, your hand.
– Yehuda Amichai
"your hand, your hand."
ReplyDeleteoh. that makes me unravel.
p.s. seeing you twice a year is not enough holly for me! D:
sui - I must concur vis-à-vis you. I liked this one in particular because the editor of the anthology wrote that it "may be taken as is ars poetica....What Amichai loves best is the ordinary human being with his pain and his joy, a museum in his heart and shopping baskets at his side."
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