Poem: Flowing Waters
As the sun was setting, vineyard colors were changing with dark brown touches, and the pebbles among the grapevines were looking at each other and at me. The pebbles were sad and desolated. They were looking at the darkening sky, without saying anything, motionless, and eternal.
On the top of the hill appeared the ruins of an old village that had been made of bricks, and now being lonely slept. Its wooden beams were fallen down corroded by the insects, and by spent time. Its medieval tower standing on the highest rock was crumbling away in an invisible way.
The small river was whispering all the time something I could feel, but not understand. The river was flowing between the rocky walls on one side the bank, and on the other side were woods, and fields. Banks staring at each other over the centuries separated and united by the fast flowing waters of a river that never sleeps.
Up to here arrived a Jewish soul that unearthed the remains of a grave on the hillside next to the river. I was there, on the bottom of that hidden valley, where I ended up from the faraway Israel after so many vicissitudes...after forgetting now my own origin, my own identity.
I was observing quietly the water flowing peacefully in the ditch, and the cute water striders walking on the stream with fast, and happy movements. I looked and saw how the ditch got lost among brushes, and bushes were skirted by apple trees.
I thought that, somehow, that water flowing in front of my eyes was getting away from me to meet the whispering river that would lead it to the faraway sea. Then the sun would raise it to the sky, and the wind would push it to the east to finally fall down in the form of a gently, and mildly rain on the green hills of Israel.
I looked up and saw the silhouetted summits on the evening sky...soon would everything sink in the black light of the night.
Barzilai Benklawer Kellajer