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    The Hours are Euros Thrown into a Bank
    The Hours are Euros Thrown into a Bank
    The Hours are Euros Thrown into a Bank
    Ebook107 pages19 minutes

    The Hours are Euros Thrown into a Bank

    By Mois Benarroch

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    About this ebook

    Last book of Benarroch in Spanish, with short poems and more short ones, some of them published directly in twitter in the last years.

    Mois Benarroch won the Amijai prize for poetry in 2012, and is one of the most translated poets of this decade worldwide. 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMoben
    Release dateJun 2, 2020
    ISBN9781071509173
    The Hours are Euros Thrown into a Bank
    Author

    Mois Benarroch

    "MOIS BENARROCH es el mejor escritor sefardí mediterráneo de Israel." Haaretz, Prof. Habiba Pdaya.

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      Book preview

      The Hours are Euros Thrown into a Bank - Mois Benarroch

      The Hours are Euros Thrown into a Bank

      ––––––––

      Mois Benarroch

      Don’t touch me, please

      I can’t stand your skin on my skin

      I hear thunder in that palpation

      I hear the voices of the dead

      Young dead, leaving no trace

      Dead in parallel worlds

      Worlds that disappear with their deaths

      And your skin reminds me of skins

      Burials on stormy days

      Dismissals each worse

      Deaths and resuscitations

      Squid in their own ink

      Black eyes that see me

      And they’re gone

      On a black and warm night

      Of the eternal summer.

      ——

      In the summer of

      Your life

      Dried fruits

      They no longer gave

      For more

      Change never

      Could have come

      At a worse time.

      ——

      Today I’m tired of the world

      Of its beauty, of its trees

      Of my family, of my children

      Of my brothers, of my wife

      Of my disrespect

      I’m sick of the injustices

      And of being a one-armed

      Tired of my pains

      That doesn’t end

      And that they get

      Each time in another member

      Tired already of being tired so much

      Even of my poems I am tired

      My books weigh me down

      Today I want to die

      That everyone leave me alone

      People, books and gods.

      ——

      The future was ours

      Now others

      Have taken him over

      Have lined themselves up

      Of human skins

      With that same future

      That we had in our

      Hands.

      ——

      You let me undress with your hand

      And I pretend I’m asleep

      I let myself be carried away by your kisses

      Without opening your eyes and eating you

      The days go by

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