a white Chrysanthemum

written by a friend…

dעr tאlmid

a white Chrysanthemum that I gave her
stood in the vase
that was on the bookshelf
with Henry Miller novels,
Boris Vian,
Khlebnikov and a few other Russian futurists books.

the flower was slowly withering
in the dry summer air.

(long Jerusalem summer days).

every morning from the angle of my bed
I saw the flower casting shadow on the white wall,

it reminded me of her.

until one day,
the flower turned in the shadow.

so the memory of

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