of the cut grass, I didn't believe I was home again." said the young soldier back stricken from the battle on the Canal. And I, who was stricken after him, fifteen years after him, did not believe I had risen from my bed: drunk as then climbing to the clay hilltop, flattening myself on its grass. And reviving in its good warmth: like a child coming back wrapped in the sweet fragrance of Mignonette. © 2000
Elisha Porat
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