In the middle of a street,
Hands of fog
Blindfolded my eyes, my world:
— Guess who?

Familiar names popped up:
— Miriam, Golda, Reyzel …
— No, no.
— Whose hands are those, whose?
— You were the rainbow-grass in my tears!

And all of a sudden
The voice changed
Into a living soul.
Had I met my own self?
It would not have happened:

— You? How did you come back, resurrec — — —

And she smiled with her violet eyebrows:
— The fire didn't like me.
Well, no is no.

Then I mutely whispered to my dearest:
— I could not believe that fire
Would have a heart to swallow you. Now
A life long I won't be able to believe,
And disbelief torments my rest like dew:
That you are living, intimate, you, you.

1949