Yotam Gingold
Plant a tree.

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translated poetry:
The trickle of clowns was noiseless.
Their eyes and noses were painted but colorless.
A fog of sadness hung in the air.
The circus was cancelled, the joy of children was, too.

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No one has wandered

No one has wandered more than you
meals and conversations
homes and diversions
eyes tastes smells
knots friends and connections
missed, mismatched, mismanaged
a generation here and there
israel and france
wandering through
dirt air clouds sky
ambitions lost and found and lost
encounters brief, encounters boring and long

No one has wandered more than the jews
sequential paran
exile in parallel
threads spinning yarn
acquiring food
acquiring fences
acquiring neighbors admirers and enemies
and now back
to ancient lands
and, even older, mitzraimerica

No one has wandered
merely shifted
one foot to the other
one day to the next
even the river barely made it
the mountain, the oceans, every living thing, this scrap of a planet
you, your X and your X or Y
with proper probability, multiplicatively zero long ago
(unrepresentable by computers not even invented yet)
the whim of Intelligence

My dearly departed
dna stopped
but chemicals continuing
sense left abruptly or slowly
belongs nowhere, owned by no place, unaffixed but where it can
that is, everywhere, temporarily
and nowhere, permanently