Ali Ali, Sunday go with Me.
Don't stay in heaven, it's too quiet up there.

Bring cookies. Bring juice.
And Maybe... don't leave halfway again.

I called You.
You said "lema' sabachi'th''ani."
I heard: "Let's go Sunday, tiny bunny."

All the rosy salts of the world grew alkaline.
Their whiteness rusted -  pauper pepper.
I taste mire, where Himalayan once stood.
I gather dust and ashes, where sweetness never was meant for......

If a second-rate artist had stayed in the academy of fine arts,
He night have draw a shtyoyk, not sphere of influence,
If a young soldier had kept writing poetry.


He once sketched corn market and the glamour of St. Micheal,
But his lines lacked the geometry of Bauhaus revolution,
If a second-rate artist had stayed in the academy of fine arts.

He might have traced tree shadows through the downpour,
Not diagrammed blueprints for labour floor,
If a young soldier had kept writing poetry.


He might have murmured Haiku to translucent jellyfish,
not sealed his breathe for iron and ash,
If a second-rate artist had stayed in the academy of fine arts.


He might have kept washi folds in origami,
rather than little red dot rained above an army,
If a young soldier had kept writing poetry.

He might have painted a Prussian blue over Bavarian Silhouette,
Not arranging the en masse beneath  broadcast commandos,
If a second-rate artist had stayed in the academy of fine arts.
If a young soldier had kept writing poetry.