Poem Title: Inside an old Philips radio model Voix du monde 335A, Röhre 1805 and from there to Israel.
Inside the old radio there were high buildings but the streets were always empty and dust covered almost everything. There were buildings in different shapes and made of different materials: iron, aluminium, thick glass and thin blown glass, plastic, bakelite, some find cord, lots of chiaroscuro and some starry hell brown fabric.
And I liked having a walk through those empty streets without shop windows or traffic. I liked the yellowy only one small light hidden sometimes inside a metalic skeleton in front of the glass in one of the corners. Sometimes I operated the nonexistent cable railway at the city's outskirt. But there was usually lots of things to hear in that town: music, news, interviews, stories and history, poetry and prose, comedies and tragedies always accompanied by the sprinklings of my mother's hissing iron in the long and peaceful evenings.
And I was fiddling with the dial trying to tune the radio to a station looking for my destiny, for my direction with the needle turning in a circular array arround the dial pointing towards the nothing that was surrounding me in my future, waiting for me without my knowing.
But now I am looking at the stones in these walls, fifty years minus seven and so far from the roman walls in my hometown. The Romans were able to make many beautiful things and many horrible things at the same time like the world today is doing.
I always kept looking at the walls in my room and I could see how the yellowy small light illuminated them in a dimly dreamily way making the dry hollows stand out, like the dry valleys in the Neguev.