Roses of ice in the ash
dark water growing in the evening
there is a field of moon trees
one human animal is trapped.
The crystal of the spirit abandons the child
from all he witnessed.
The shadow of the hill
corroded by violent night storms,
a grieving mother, Earth,
in the empty room arises
the face of the screamer.
From a wooden gate, the flowers are vanishing
into the dark water
the heart of everything is dead
A curse is a scarf upon the possibilities of cerulean
These are exhales from broken teeth.
These are pure elegies in a demolished land.
By Yonathan Berg
Translated w/ Jennifer Styperk