A city of spaces and silences, a beehive devoid of bees,
its are's, when scoured and stripped, turn into used-to-be's
Memory with its low tides, high tides, phases of mind,
retreats in a frightened hurry, leaving nameless stones behind
and then flows back in a gush, aching to fill every hole,
like a remorseful thief who comes to give back what he stole.
Is a man but a part of a shop sign, a curve of its alef in "קאַווע",
a flake of discolored paint, a flash from under the cover?
And will you hear when the scribbles written in ink and chalk,
our scattered unfound letters, wake up and begin to talk?