The Tourist by Yehuda Amichai
She showed me her swaying hair
in the four winds of her coming.
I showed her some of my folding ways of life
and the trick, and the lock.
She asked after my street and my house
and I laughed loudly.
She showed me this long night
and the interior of her thirty years.
I showed her the place where I once laid tefillin.
I brought her chapters and verses
and sand from Eilat
and the handling of the Torah
and the manna of my death
and all the miracles that have not yet healed in me.
She showed me the stages of joy
and my childhood's double.
I revealed to her that King David is not buried in his tomb
and that I don't live in my life.
While I was reflecting and she was eating,
the city map lay open on the table—
her hand on Qatamon,
my hand on hers-
the cup covered the Old City,
ash dropped on the King David Hotel,
And an ancient weeping
allowed us to lie together.
(translated from hebrew by Assia Guitmann)
