What Will Come

What will come after the creak of the iron?
The era of silver falling apart, the era of beaten gold,
The days of sinking eye pupils, the opulence of rust
dying. Memorial days will stick to calendars
like dry ivy on houseless walls.
And the mouth will fill with flour and we will not be able to speak.
What will come after we chop the thumbs of our hands?
Tetanus, rabies, thick iodine-soaked bandages.
Cumulonimbus clouds will rise in the distance
amassing both softness and weight.
You remember:
What you see, if you see,
is a lie. Because truth is frail, truth is transparent
and it surrounds you like nitrogen.
Truth is indiscernible.
You remember:
What you blocked your ears from,
the voice you tried to forget,
never stopped speaking.
It returns as a curse, howls like a jackal
in villages existing no more
where you pass by.
Because after the era of creaking iron
the sharpened steal razor will be drawn
and the blade will shave your head
and fear will fall upon your heart
and the trees of the forest will swing in the wind,
rising.

The poem was translated by Galit Hasan-Rokem, with the poet’s help.