Here, in this place,
Near where this special ground splits apart,
It's difficult to see.
My white house stands.
When I look through the window
I see a frame into which I wake up,
But when I open the door
All the frames disappear
And the place swallows me, my house
And my time into its depths.
In the evening when darkness takes over everything,
I enter my house of poured concrete and cement,
It's walls are insulated itung and its floor wedges of Italian marble.
I wrap myself up in a small square
Whose measurements I can count out.
Here in this place,
Once Abraham also placed his tent
And at sunrise, one could imagine,
My foot treads occasionally
on parts of the ground and stone which remember his footprint.
And after he tried his hand at counting the stars, endlessly
He went in and wrapped himself in his small triangle,
Whose proportions enabled him to load it onto his shoulder.
And this place then and even now
Dictates thoughts and dreams, wishes, promises
And longings not in my power to reach.
Here in this place,
In a previous life I was Sara
I stroked the imagoes of Abraham for years
As my tears washed over his hands.
And I died
When my only son was taken to the sacrifice
For due to him I laughed.
Here in this place,
Truly on the same small spot,
Near where this special ground splits apart
It's difficult
Difficult to see.