Some time ago, Mother told me, that when she looks at me carrying all this burden, her pains begin to itch.

I remembered her words this morning,  when she was beside me and wrinkles crept into her face, and wanted to tell her: 
Forget the burden, Mother! 
The valley is so beautiful this morning! 
It is the time for the mists to come down from the mountain, 
to lie among the soft grass,
to rest.
Look at them, the dear ones, curling up with the road,
snuggling with the little heart,
finding solace among his thistles.

Follow them down till they reach the wildflowers,
till they meet the fallow deer, till they touch the Carob tree.

They appear and disappear, as all beautiful things do.
They ascend and descend, as if they are the ladder of Jacob.

Look at the valley, Mother.
(it turnes the burden into morning dew)

For Bjork.

Everything is born in winter

The ground lays below it



Be the water that remembers  

Grab the soft soil

Get tangled up in the branches of the old oak tree

Be the child next to the train window

Waiting for the first snow to fall

Be the white nights

Be the low sun



The clouds will come

The air will warm up

Isn't it what they say?




"Снег, Юлька..."

People get carried away to you,
As if they are bottles.
The tips of their limbs move to the sound of life under them,
Longing for your blessings.
But you are a lonely Island,
And the Spirit of God hovers over the Water.
Nothing is created or destroyed.
Only changes space,
Or becomes a question:
Is everything fine?
Where does it hurt?
Do you remember to water the tree?
Would you mind me turn on the music?
Are you thirsty? (Why not?)
Maybe sad? (Why yes?)
The bell? Is it for you?
And the army? When are they coming?
Can I turn on the light?
Have you seen the black bag?
What about some rest?
Why don't you ever answer?
All the leaves fell out
And no one can console
I'm ready for snow
Can you hear me, father?


I inherited the greater pain from my father
From my mother-the lesser one, the smell of Jasmine and Linden trees in bloom.
And so the four of them accompany me.
Always present.
Like the sight of wind turbines in foreign landscapes.
The planes are always warm
  My flesh sticks to the artificial leather seats
    And peels off them
      One organ after another
I am asked to cooperate
  But only in case of emergency
    Then being baptised in milk and honey
      By a thousand shining suns
The chestnut trees are always the first to get tired.
They're shaking off summer as if it was a precious second-hand carpet in the hands of a master.
In order to show some solidarity, I start yellowing at my corners, falling,
and asking myself what would this man
(who sat next to me in the same goddamn train,
and looked with me at the same goddamn sea)
if I would ask him whether God states how many hearts a person can bear?
(because I already have one for every home, and for every tree whose name I don't know)
And there was evening and there was morning, one day.

I got married

I got married
The sea level in the soul had risen
It's been a while since I've been above
The neon lights
The stink
And the wounded cats of Tel Aviv

Sorry I lost you
While you were talking
It's probably this tiny leaf
Which fell to your left and froze
Like an echo in a distance

Then I
(Got so tired of this shudder
While laying on a quality quilt
Between two Augusts and oneself)
Was translating Thom York's lyrics
Like a suicidal girl

Nothing is above time
Just as nothing is beneath it

(Except the expectations
And my mother's voice) 

Get up and go

"Get up and go"

Father always quotes me, but stays in the same place

all the time.

If he would hear me, he would state:
"If I could, Yulchik, I would have lived half a year in Jaffa, and then another half in Rome, and in Paris another half of another year, in this life, or the upcoming."

Something in me also wants to be torn (between cities and people),
to arrive (and to disappear),
to be remembered by the old man in the small cafe serving fortune cookies next to the tea,
or by this guy, I met at (half past) midnight,
whose eyes I avoided,
and from whom I walked away in awe (mixed with terror)


he had the time to notice the beauty mark on my chin
and would be the first

All the beautiful things

all the beautiful things that fall apart

always fall quietly

like snow

now look at you 

a fool standing on a platform 

or at a bus station 

or in a reception hall 

or in any geographical location whose function is to connect between a moment ago

and the second after

nothing really happens, sweetheart

except for this warm and unusually dry November


I have read that the land is beautiful to make it difficult to forget

And it really is

Especially when the pain drains into the West

Like the clouds of the end of summer


There is some kind of silky smooth

 Terribly appealing fear

Which consists of air conditioners in a peripheral neighborhood

And a road named eight five four

I still dream of


And if I would be given a day

Just one day

I swear

I would drive up and down this road

Wandering between two and a half thousand

And four thousand rpm

Like chronic and incurable

Heart arrhythmias

(No, People don't die from it, but thank you for asking)