Jerusalem
A human being
is not symmetrical.
— srecko kosovel
1.
I gently touch you now
not the way I did
eleven years ago —
not with that yearning
for faith and peace,
but with a private prayer
for inner calm, care,
stillness; and
for forgiveness and love.
The gleaming hand-worn
shine on Jerusalem stone,
where the public merges
with the private,
where prayer and passion
collide and unite —
where a certain kind
of kindness changes
to another kind —
where a certain kind
of passion changes
to another kind
of desire. It is
a blessing of time —
eleven years is a lifetime.
2.
As I try once again
to wedge in
a piece of coded-paper
into the cracks
and joins of The Wall,
I discover
another paper
behind the new one
resisting my approach.
I try to force it in —
the more I try
the more impossible it gets.
Failing, I now try to
take out the old paper
that prevents my will,
take out that piece
and resize
my own new prayers —
but the longing
of past years resists
dislodging the old.
I prise out
the old folded sheet —
it looks weathered
and yellow
like the local stone’s
sun-stained ochre.
I open it —
it is the same one
I had put in
eleven years ago.
Time had preserved
memory,
preserved my wishes.
Was I the same then
as I am now?
Was the feeling then
more sincere
than now?
Passion for life
never wanes for some.
New love
like old love
balances
its inherent truths.
Here, gun-slung soldiers,
pilgrims, children,
and men in black garb —
move forwards
and backwards —
their axis, their waist —
a symmetry
that instils and heightens
their own faith —
a symmetry
I cannot hope
to aspire to,
as I am —
like Kosovel’s man —
not symmetrical.
EN 
MK