“A walk with Amos Oz” by Erri De Luca


Along The walls of Jerusalem
where in ’67 there was the border
and the bullets looked after the bodies to shoot down
we go,he points at the stones heavy because the lead.
It’s a bright february morning,
rather than blood, we better talk about water.
I tell him of the well dug on my field,
the joy for the first spring of water on the ground,
water shared between the trees and my domestic use,
scarce, dosed water,without wasting it.
He remembers the water recovered in the bucket after teeth brush,
then used to clean the floor, then squeezed in the rag
and poured in the furrow of the onions.
We stop, we have a smile,
we have been two people who cared the drops.


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