My Mother Comes From The Days

by Yehuda Amichai

My mother comes from the days where they made
paintings of beautiful fruit in silver bowls
and didn’t ask for more.
People moved through their lives
like ships, with the wind or against it, faithful
to their course.
I ask myself which is better,
dying old or dying young.
As if I’d asked which is lighter,
a pound of feathers or a pound of iron.

I want feathers, feathers, feathers.

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