a white Chrysanthemum

a white Chrysanthemum that I gave her
stood in the vase
that was on the bookshelf
with Henry Miller novels,
Kafka,
Boris Vian,
Khlebnikov and a few other Russian futurists books.

the flower was slowly withering
in the dry summer air.

(long Jerusalem summer days).

every morning from the angle of my bed
I saw the flower casting its shadow onto the white wall,
behind.

it always reminded me of her.

until one day,
the flower turned into the shadow.

so the memory of
her.

3 thoughts on “a white Chrysanthemum

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