Sitting in the park, on a bench under the close-woven domes of trees painted in different green shades...children running about and playing around me.
A grey-haired old woman pushes an empty baby buggy before her. On my left, a column of water climbs from the garden pond towards the blue sky, and the breeze takes some cold fine drops from it, and gently caresses with them my face.
The breeze slides over the water in the pound that now looks like a small sea. Where does that breeze come from? Does it come from the East? Why has it caressed my face with water of the sea?
The greenish brown of palm trees alternates with the purple color of the mimosas under the pale blue in the sky, now the sunlight lit everything, and impregnates the world with burning paintbrushes. The palm trees have been lit like candles crowned with fire.
It is nice here but sorrow coming from the past wants to dye everything. The formidable loneliness in the middle of the Universe! In Sefarad is the fragrance of the grass. In Sefarad is the wheat being threshed on the round threshing floors, surrounded by lively voices sharing the rhythm of the trotting horse.
From there, from Eretz Israel, from the other side of the Great Sea, sitting in front of Sefarad hidden behind the horizon I remember the lonely rocks, stones, and trees round the threshing floor like silent witnesses of a suffering Jewish broken heart...