Quiet Motgher Weeps for Everyone

Quiet Mother Weeps For Everyone i White breath of stolen time, we drink your mornings, we drink your midday, we drink you when the crescent moon hangs her ashen halo in disorderly retreat. We drink you when the Med’s quiet tears recall that great rampart on the coast – rising from the siege of sea and ash. We drink your midnights in the crowning moment of choking air – when the star trap detonates like a fire genie emerging in a holy holo of magnesium. ii White breath of stolen time, a woman plays piano in a house in Tel Aviv. When it gets dark, she types: ‘Death is a Mistress from the Holy Land’ on her 1943 Olympia. She claims the keys shining above number 5 are lightening bolts preserving peace. She wears orthodox braids in the latest “Jerusalem” cut and calls to her Gazza flautists: play it in slow procession through the ruins of emptry time. Her eyes glow above the Lost City in the Desert. Her eyes glow white hot as peeling flesh. Her eyes glow as much as pain. iii White breath of stolen time, we bring you the house of music and words – we bring you a child anaesthetised on a stretcher. We bring you biopsy and amputation. We drink now to bring you stars (we once knew) glowing in veils of chemical goodbyes. We utter: Lento doloroso in the stolen garden as if notes weighed more than gravity.