There are children in the morning,
They are leaning out for love,
And they will lean that way forever
– Leonard Cohen

Father,
Forever missing the mark,
Consumed with love, like a match,
Bent over a book.
Unsung,
Kislev dissolves into the air.
A clumsy moon pounds against the ribcage of the street, herds
Of fog trample in the dark.
When he gapes his hands
On the elusive table,
In his cold, done sleep,
It’s hard to believe he once crossed the ocean and once
Saw snow,
In the shrunken houses of Morocco,
The end of the forties,
The cradle of time.

Translated by Orit Krugilansky