Temporary Poem of My Time - Yehuda Amichai

[Lawrence Robinson]

Temporary Poem of My Time 

Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west, 
Latin writing, from west to east. 
Languages are like cats: 
You must not stroke their hair the wrong way. 
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert, 
The trees bend in the wind, 
And stones fly from all four winds, 
Into all four winds. They throw stones, 
Throw this land, one at the other, 
But the land always falls back to the land. 
They throw the land, want to get rid of it. 
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it. 

They throw stones, throw stones at me 
In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988, 
Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites, 
Evil men throw and just men throw, 
Sinners throw and tempters throw, 
Geologists throw and theologists throw, 
Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw, 
Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw, 
Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone, 
Stones shaped like a screaming mouth 
And stones fitting your eyes 
Like a pair of glasses, 
The past throws stones at the future, 
And all of them fall on the present. 
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones, 
Even God in the Bible threw stones, 
Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown 
And got stuck in the beastplate of justice, 
And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple. 

Oh, the poem of stone sadness 
Oh, the poem thrown on the stones 
Oh, the poem of thrown stones. 
Is there in this land 
A stone that was never thrown 
And never built and never overturned 
And never uncovered and never discovered 
And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders 
And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers 
And never turned into a cornerstone? 

Please do not throw any more stones, 
You are moving the land, 
The holy, whole, open land, 
You are moving it to the sea 
And the sea doesn't want it 
The sea says, not in me. 

Please throw little stones, 
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel, 
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek, 
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods, 
Throw limestone, throw clay, 
Throw sand of the seashore, 
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust, 
Throw soil, throw wind, 
Throw air, throw nothing 
Until your hands are weary 
And the war is weary 
And even peace will be weary and will be. 

	- Yehuda Amichai

Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav