to Aharon Amir

Yes, he recalled also a day of enlightenment:
the imagined skeleton of his future life
suddenly cleaved and he saw
the innards of his life, the innards of his 
   years, the
innards of the innards of himself in a sort 
   of mirror.
Walking in green citrus groves
whistling himself a tune, crying secretly,
remembering words, packing them into 
   his notebook:
collect, compile, convey, repeat. Seeing
his days growing short and his nights 
   becoming petrified.
And from afar, from the hill, a sudden sorrow
pulls him: that time ran out and he did not
finish and did not understand and already 
   he is called.


Read more work by Israeli poet Elisha Porat at Magnapoets.