Show me a picture of you in a tree, let your face silent be,
Tell me the story of summer when you were six.
Tell me the tale when I was there, slightly older,
And empty as a sky our futures were.
Tell me who was sick, and which last words of a frightened child were.
Show me an empty box on which a Star of David was etched,
How it bears your name, late and over.
Tell me the story of your new place
In the minute of sleep and I’ll tell our mother
There’s still beauty everywhere, in an exact manner.