Go, to the mountainsWritten by Yona Levy Grosman Translated by Lami Halperin. Go, my father, to the mountains send your lamentation into the wind let the wind carry it over the valleys caressing your silent face. The thorns that have grown in your silent beds became the accusing fingers pointed at you our Lord and the stranger are calling to you the son of the son of Joshua are you Crusaders – are calling your son Abraham, the father of my father and my brother - you The gates of mercy are shut my father the dead locked them the sound of the keys to our homes whistling in the wind strange hands struggle in their hearts for those murdered in their homes you won’t find keys in their hands our bones will be the keys to our homes Come wind gather the groans and whispers the cries the land between grinding teeth Come wind gather all the scars and the gaping eyes of my brother gather the stones the bones the daggers Gather the ashes from the crematoria to build a mountain of screams and you, my father shrine-like stillness and only someone who will ask and will listen to the whisper of the earth will hear the sound of Jacob’s calloused hands working on a new home. |
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