Since you have stormed upon me, I will play you forever. In vain, I am trying to put a wall between us. In vain, I am trying to close doors. My desire is for you and your garden is mine. My body is dizzy, my hands limp. Let is be known for the record, that you are both the sin and the judge. You are sudden forever and my eyes are dazed by you. While I am struggling in the streets, bleeding raspberry sunsets, you are binding me in sheafs. Do not entreat the retreaters to approach. I am a lone nomad in your countries. My prayer is asking for nothing. My prayer is one and it says: here's to you! To the end of sadness, to the depths of the night, in long and empty iron streets, God has commanded me to endure your torture and to produce almonds and raisins, out of my misery. It is good that your hand is gripping my heart. Do not take pity on it, when it tires of beating. Have no mercy when it darkens like a room, with the stars left outside. There, the moon is sizzling like a kiss of a cook. There, a moist sky is thundering a cough. There, a Sycamore tree is dropping a branch like a kerchief and I bow and pick it up. I know that one day, to the beat of drums, in a bustling and aching trade city, I will fall, head-struck, to pick up your smile from under a chariot.
Since you have stormed upon me, I will play you forever.
In vain, I am trying to put a wall between us. In vain, I am trying to close doors.
My desire is for you and your garden is mine. My body is dizzy, my hands limp.
Let is be known for the record, that you are both the sin and the judge.
You are sudden forever and my eyes are dazed by you.
While I am struggling in the streets, bleeding raspberry sunsets, you are binding me in sheafs.
Do not entreat the retreaters to approach. I am a lone nomad in your countries.
My prayer is asking for nothing. My prayer is one and it says: here's to you!
To the end of sadness, to the depths of the night, in long and empty iron streets, God has commanded me to endure your torture and to produce almonds and raisins, out of my misery.
It is good that your hand is gripping my heart. Do not take pity on it, when it tires of beating.
Have no mercy when it darkens like a room, with the stars left outside.
There, the moon is sizzling like a kiss of a cook. There, a moist sky is thundering a cough.
There, a Sycamore tree is dropping a branch like a kerchief and I bow and pick it up.
I know that one day, to the beat of drums, in a bustling and aching trade city,
I will fall, head-struck, to pick up your smile from under a chariot.
ריקוד כפול של בועז יואלמן