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The Speed of My Life

To my parents

who had left me so early

I couldn’t see them clearly

Some day, evening or

all of a sudden

you will meet me

at the end of the tunnel

(as the ones returning from there had told).

And then you’ll ask me

if I’m sure

I’ve been happy?

I will say,

no, you can’t talk there,

but I would feel the hesitating “yes”,

I will still remember the pain

as a sin which I didn’t succeed to over-live.

And because I will speak fast

(actually I couldn’t talk, I’ll think intesivelly)

to fit into the few minutes earthly time

before you push me towards the light,

I will get confused and think-about small things,

the big ones- leaving for the end

for unforgiven

clay prints of occurrences and people,

close and not so close,

about unwashed wine stains

drunk with pity,

I will try to recall

the left unfinished sentences,

the left unfinished knitted shawls,

lost loves,


and other debts,

I’ll even skip the sea.

Only the roads will remain

which I had walked on

to look for my childhood

and the bridges

which had connected me

with the part of me

where you had lived.

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