"Mois benarroch is the best sephardi writer in Israel."
Haaretz
Published in Spanish in 2003, Sea of Sepharad explores the relations between the descendants of the expelled Sephardi community with the world of Judaism, Morocco and Israel.
Steps
My steps continue walking in Seville
go up and down on Levies Street
looking for my burned wife
in front of the church
while I was returning from Granada.
My steps keep on gouging the streets
day and night and they never stop they never part
of streets in which only my steps exist.
My steps procede marking Seville
its limits and its borders
its sky and its river
its tongue and its words
and when I laugh out loud
it's because I'm crazy
crazy from the past, crazy
of thoughts, crazy
of love.
Crutches
I leave you sailors of La Mancha
In black seas, I leave you and I go
don't throw me life jackets I know very well
to walk over these waters
I don't need your help
Neither for future mortgages
the waves are enough for me to ride
the odor of the oranges drive me to my land
and I am freer than all the freedom that you can imagine
stronger than all the help you try to give me
so that I walk on crutches
to later say that I don't know how to swim
not even to walk over the asphalt
on the wet grass of the morning
That's it, finally, I'm leaving
let it be clear
I will not return.
Ever.
Haaretz
Published in Spanish in 2003, Sea of Sepharad explores the relations between the descendants of the expelled Sephardi community with the world of Judaism, Morocco and Israel.
Steps
My steps continue walking in Seville
go up and down on Levies Street
looking for my burned wife
in front of the church
while I was returning from Granada.
My steps keep on gouging the streets
day and night and they never stop they never part
of streets in which only my steps exist.
My steps procede marking Seville
its limits and its borders
its sky and its river
its tongue and its words
and when I laugh out loud
it's because I'm crazy
crazy from the past, crazy
of thoughts, crazy
of love.
Crutches
I leave you sailors of La Mancha
In black seas, I leave you and I go
don't throw me life jackets I know very well
to walk over these waters
I don't need your help
Neither for future mortgages
the waves are enough for me to ride
the odor of the oranges drive me to my land
and I am freer than all the freedom that you can imagine
stronger than all the help you try to give me
so that I walk on crutches
to later say that I don't know how to swim
not even to walk over the asphalt
on the wet grass of the morning
That's it, finally, I'm leaving
let it be clear
I will not return.
Ever.
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