The millenary stones
of the Western Wall,
the smooth Holy Sepulcher,
the labyrinthine bazaar streets,
the haredim I crossed path with
are soon to become memories
but now,
three men are sunken in the Torah
right next to me as our bus breaks through the night’s curtain.
Tremulous sidelocks dance
as they search for divine answers.
A murmuration of ancient words;
their lips move undeciphered.
My lips are sealed but from my depth my senses grow tectacles.
Long skirts and sleeves,
foulards and wigs
darkened by rules and soberness
cover the women’s bodies.
They are free to walk outside, to work,
to give birth, to raise children.
Their men were born to study.
To them I don’t exist in flesh;
their eyes transcend me
yet, I am both here and somewhere else
tasting the sacred fruit of life up to Jerusalem’s kernel.