The hazy air surrounds us all,
with dust which cannot dirty them.
Dry heat and desert-wind envelop
the Holy Day
without a moment touching them.
In white and black silken taffeta
they stroll around
with happy smiles
and black shiny leather shoes
without a grain
of what’s around.
Clear faces, pure and smooth
washed for the Holy Day
who sadly does not belong to me.
A child’s green eye looks shyly at
he knows already I am not one of them.
With constant longing my soul admires
these images from centuries past
when I w-a-s one of them.
(From PRIVATE 47 – ISREAEL, p. 66)