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"Yona Levy-Grosman unites with the desert. She is the desert. It is this desert that leaves its fingerprints on her works. The topography of the fingerprints is the desert. A three-dimensional, many layered topography. A topography of crevices' of rocks. Of ancients landscapes. A splinted topography.

Alone in infinity – kneeling before the brilliance, Gnawed and reuniting, her act is that of Creation.
The desert winds join her in their unique hum, The thrilling desert whistling, And carry it like a Joshua tree across the open spaces And it floats and creates its haven from the sea of hardships Creating the ultimate refuge Closed in and attentive to the silence of the world."

Around his neck

Around his neck,
The key to my neck.
And my neck
Is empty of keys.
Doors were opening and
Closing on their hinges
In my father’s house, and grandfather’s and his Grandfather
And keys locked and opened incessantly.
Their hands are empty of keys
Their necks, oh my father,
The heavens were filled with shouting
Their blood
Watered fields, flooded streets.
My feet became as wanderers
My eyes roving,
Whose hand grasped my grandfather’s neck?
And his son, my father,
With no more doors,
His hand in front of me
Clasping keys.


My Mother was Blond

My mother was blond,
Eyes like smoke,
Succeeded in surviving
In a godless Europe.
My father had two sisters, like daughters of Shem,
Black hair,
Almond eyes to see the world.
And now
Almond blossoms cover my grandfather’s land, among
Red carpets of anemone covering the earth
The grain rose as high
As my girls’ necks.
A sigh
Bursts from my throat
When gold touches gold
Between lands' black haired sons of Shem.
Maybe this time justice will stand
And have its way.


And after the Destruction

And after the Destruction
One must gather strength
One must sow bread,
One must gather strength
One must harvest grape wine
One must gather strength
One must ask pardon
One must gather strength
And one must say a prayer
One must gather what was gleaned
And wrap oneself in love.


The lost man

The lost man and suisidal woman
Born of one womb.
The warming sun
Will not help,
The caressing wind,
The soft sand
Spring flowering
And clear water
To drink one’s fill,
Won’t help.
The lost man
And the suisidal woman
Sated from the same wellspring
And drinking from the same breast,
Not knowing,
Lost born of one womb
And nothing can help.


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