Ronny Someck
THE RED CATALOGUE OF THE WORD SUNSET
A French poet sees the sun turning red
and presses the color of wine from cloudgrapes.
An English poet compares it to a rose
and the Hebrew to blood.
Oh my country, a land sinking cannibal lips in the sunset’s
virginal neck
the oars of fear are sewn to the length of my arms
and I, in the ark of my life, now like Noah
toward Ararat.
Translated by Vivian Eden

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