a white Chrysanthemum that I gave her
stood in the vase
that was on the bookshelf
with Henry Miller novels,
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,
it always reminded me of her.
until one day,
the flower turned into the shadow.
so the memory of