i don't know what's right. i don't know what's real. what does one do when one is in love? i cannot recall -- it's been too long. i just remember the embraces. the joy of holding a body and the pain of letting one go.
half a poem by yehuda amichai i wrote down once while mourning and seeking wisdom in a library
a man in his life has no time.
when he loses he seeks
when he finds he forgets
when he forgets he loves
when he loves he begins forgetting.
and his soul is knowing
and very professional,
only his body remains an amatuer
always. it tries and fumbles
he doesn't learn and gets confused,
drunk and blind in his pleasures and pains.
in autumn he will die like a fig,
shriveled, sweet, full of himself,
the leaves dry out on the ground,
and the naked branches point
to the place where there's time for everything.