The things that have been we will bury
under castles at the beach.

“and as the sand which is upon the sea shore”
which wander with the wind

and the waters of the human mother.
But for the a man a grain

of sand, a piece
of glass, a mirror.

The things that have been we will remember
the cornerstone to the legend

of today, the day of our delight.

© Guy Traiber

Your breasts are presses into the bed,
the white sheets have just been ironed and stretched.
How much softness?
Like green hills under the summer rain.

The sky’s drops drip
from the soil’s bushes and its erecting trees.
My lust
wide as your eyes smile.

© Guy Traiber

שדייך נלחצים אל המיטה
הסדינים הלבנים רק גובצו ונמתחו
כמה רכות?
כמו גבעות ירוקות בגשם הקיץ.

טיפות השמיים נוטפות
משיחי האדמה ועציה המזדקרים.
כרוחב חיוך עינייך


Ideas are thrown
on the highways side
turning from side to side like a miserable
suffocating fish
like a smashed tombstone.

Longings are turning
with great difficulty, like leaders figures
made of bronze, of concrete, of cast iron
an anchor in a ghost platform.

The life and the love
between the skies and the earth
moisture and seed
once I am a floating love
like air-kiss, once I
am panting heavily, my hands clinching to your back
like a man who is trying not to fall
……………….trying to climb himself out of the pit.

© Guy Traiber


it’s happening now
a dance
or some kind of other
artful movement
wild yet within its boundaries
like a flower
or the lifelines on a fresh leaf

it’s happening
in a place
i can only assume
to be
behind my chest bone
and it’s warm
and it’s nice
and it’s you

you are dancing
in my chest
and i am very happy
you are
a good dancer

© Guy Traiber

No an Island

By the table on the pavement, the balcony of the Italian restaurant, on one of the Tel-Aviv’s main streets, watching people trapped in motion to here and to there, I am who I am, not an island but a little village in the big city. Three stories buildings terrify and charm me, all kinds of vehicles are cooing around, accelerating and decelerating according to hidden inner rules. Colours and shapes are trying to attack me from every direction but in vein they break on my invisible wall which is the knowledge of things. Among the blessing village life (and life) teaches are the things you don’t waste time to learn. The emperor doesn’t cry over things he doesn’t know, his guards and ambassadors don’t pour time and energy dealing with minor things they have never heard about. There is enough time left to quietly sip cold pale beer.

© Guy Traiber


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