This baby is a baseball from New York, that was lost on his way to New Jersey. This baby is news from Chicago, that were lost on their way to Brooklyn. This baby is a rock that was thrown in Dir El-Ballah. Never thrown in Tel-Aviv. This baby is a gray pond that dried out on Lesser Uri’s stretched canvas. This baby’s mother has embarked, on a long Journey. This baby’s father lost his mind in, some abstract, poetic land. This baby’s parents are still life. This baby checked into hotel in East Jerusalem. This baby sees night after night the moon going down (of David Avidan), and the eyes in his head see it bleed, from time to time. In spite of my deserting nature, I acknowledge fatherhood. This baby’s name is spelled out on all my utility bills.
Adam Baruch
