Yad Mordechai. Those who fell here <br />still look out the windows like sick children <br />who are not allowed outside to play. <br />And on the hillside, the battle is reenacted <br />for the benefit of hikers and tourists. Soldiers of thin sheet iron <br />rise and fall and rise again. Sheet iron dead and a sheet iron life <br />and the voices all—sheet iron. And the resurrection of the dead, <br />sheet iron that clangs and clangs. <br /> <br />And I said to myself: Everyone is attached to his own lament <br />as to a parachute. Slowly he descends and slowly hovers <br />until he touches the hard place. <br /> <br /> <br />Translated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld<br /><br />Yehuda Amichai<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/yad-mordechai/
