Log Cabin Chronicles
On Memorial Day I make my way up
to the small military cemetery.
In the northwestern corner
we've placed a grey basalt rock
and facing the southern corner-
a blanching chunk of chalk.
And in between under the loose sand
our red loam
spreads itself all round.
And when the loudspeaker booms out
the memorial prayer
I close my eyes
and see those three colours
descend before me and disappear
into the encroaching shadow of the stones.
Translated into English by Seymour Mayne
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Copyright © 2007 Elisha Porat