The night after Be’er Sheba brings no dreams.
Morning birds sail through the canyon.
In the still air, their choreography lingers;
small sounds of peace.
From somewhere, a sheep bleats.
Rapidly, the sun rises higher, warms the stones.
The same smell emanated from the wall in the city,
that tangible smell of two thousand years and more
of pleading and screaming; absorbed by the desert.
Forgive me for cursing in your presence.
Parched is the skin of my feet making their way
through a dry wadi. Piety becomes a natural state
as I go further south, seeking wisdom in a barren
land that if you change one letter becomes precious;
a green oasis for ailing hearts.
I cover my hair.
Soon, the sun will set behind the mountain silhouette.
Oh, Beloved of my soul --
will I lose you when I go back
to the North?