It is too early and too late to dream.My sister-God braids my hair forit has grown since the mirrors wore black. It is too early to die, too late to be born.I have carrots to chop,
Uncle Yosele, may you rest peacefullyoutside Tel Aviv in the makeshift hospitalwhere cousin Bati watches over you.She told me how you hid under a carfor two days without water,how you saw your son Ron massacredholding the