Yad Mordechai.
Those who fell herestill look out the windows like sick childrenwho are not allowed outside to play.
And on the hillside, the battle is reenactedfor the benefit of hikers and tourists.
Soldiers of thin sheet ironrise and fall and rise again.
Sheet iron dead and a sheet iron lifeand the voices all—sheet iron.
And the resurrection of the dead,sheet iron that clangs and clangs.
And I said to myself:
Everyone is attached to his own lamentas to a parachute.
Slowly he descends and slowly hoversuntil he touches the hard place.
Translated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld
