I will gather feelings that remain,
like the last fruits after the harvest
All that the hand of sadness hasn't destroyed from the root
And the fires of anger have not yet scorched within me.
I will line a wicker basket with memories of Kineret
And the pink of morning skies between garden trees.
The gold of noon on the tranquil expanse
And the evening lilacs on the Golan hills.
The memory of the night the crescent moon rose over still waters
This is my shout of joy as my days begin.
This is the shout of joy I'll bind the basket with
And send it to you - will you be happy for the gift? |