Days will say if I was wrong and in the meantime, I am swimming in endless uncertainty, which resemble Verter’s agony, thus
I am not young as he. There is no comfort to my soul and the beer isn’t helping forget. Little child is begging me to give him Shekel, only one – I dig deep into my purse and give him one, turning my face away not to reveal the sadness and my heart is elsewhere. "Let him never know more sorrow" I beg, for him as for me glancing secretly upon the sky above as wondering for my creator to reply. I remember Nemtodoy my little friend, chasing me down the stairs shouting: "come back, come back to me", "but I can’t" I would say "I am the prisoner of another game now". "Let it go, join me to our field where just you and I, Yalutzka." I wish I could be with you Nemtodoy, my only friend who never judged me and allowed my joyful soul the space it needed until I sailed into hidden lands vibrating with pleasure of childish strength. I remember us hoping on those
hills collecting wild lilies, smelling the burning charcoals and how you wanted me to sing for you this "Bedouin" song in foreign language that you taught me earlier. "But that’s Nadin’s song" I would say, "she is the only one aloud to sing that – as her ancient mothers told her. "No" you said, "It is your
voice I wish to hear for it is touching my heart." I am captive now in dream , a faded dream, about a tent with smoke rising, Nadin’s mother is there and she is baking giant Pita bread on the Tabun, the smell travel far far away up to the distance flower hill where you can see us, lying side by side, telling each other secrets in languages only us can know, and you persisted that I will sing. So I stood on one foot, at my back the smoke from Nadin’s tent was rising, the goats strolls around sniffing on the grass that grows around and bowing happily for a pet, "Meh, Meh…" So I grabbed my dress and I sang, like I never did before, sharp sweet distant tune, like the noise or the bell hanged on Aziza, the ever-horny white goat. And my voice rolled down the village up to the entrance of Nadin’s tent where her parents are running outside waving arms, which would dare to sing their forbidden chant? The one dedicated for the young bride to sing for her husband at the night of their marriage. But I didn’t know that then and you, got so scared that you ran away and left me facing them myself. Nemtodoy I am singing our song now, the hills are expecting autumn as I wait for you to enter my door. I am baking big Pita bread just for you on the pan and soon the neighbor will ask, "what is burnings?" "Burning? Nothing. May be my heart. I will go down to the beach now to wait, will you come, Nemtodoy? The child who bagged for Shekel could be yours. Perhaps you are waiting like me to hear my voice and the sound of Aziza’s bell? My door is open.