Lyrics: Yahu Yaron
Translation (to English): Uri Lifshitz
A.
This is not a good time to be writing poetry:
Men and pretty girls passing through the boulevard with the derriere flair of models low in spirit, I see them, I stare, sitting on a boulevard bench between two trees,
by a woman. I see the boulevard,
I don’t see the beauty.
This is not a good time to be writing poetry:
The night is hot. The summer’s hot.
And this is not fall, this is nothing at all.
This perspiration is bad for me.
This hasn’t happened for a while.
When the inner darkness grabs the light
with a beast’s claws,
that staring in a beaten face,
starving glare,
hair bristling on the back of the neck:
“listen buddy, we’ll do it all
so you don’t fall”.
I’ll make you all suffer.
This is the real now
This is real time
So pull yourself together
And do it like a man
This is not a good time to be writing poetry (a short story):
This guy sits alone in the shrink’s waiting room, leafing through an old women’s magazine, dating thirty years back.
When he arrives to the nipple of the bygone hot, this pinkness makes him see:
it’s been so long since I cried and so long since I wanted to play, to taste a woman,
to feel the wind with a licked finger.
I’m turning back into a baby.
this is the real now
this is real time
so pull yourself together
eat it up and don’t spit.
This is not a good time to be writing poetry:
Milk drops dropping from the moon on the sidewalk, a baby laughs, a woman cries, with no hint of embarrassment, walls of sadness (or joy) separate us.
And the glaring eyes of all sorts of malicious men
(I worked it, I know it, It really happened)
the glaring eyes of all sorts of malicious men
punch a hole in my back
and a thorn in my heart.
I yell at the boulevard.
Everyone sing back to me:
This is the real now
This is real time
So pull yourself together
As if nothing happened yet
And I have two hands like sunken freighters
and I have a mother in love
and a big will to cry
and there’s a small dial
and a big dial
and if I dance with them both
I could just eat the sky
and I have a big love that doesn’t know me yet
and there’s a rumor saying
that it’s all my fault
and there are man and pretty girls
and the boulevard
and those who tell me to act as if nothing happened yet.
as if nothing happened yet.
This is not a good time to be writing poetry.
B.
I’m concerned by the way my life seems right now
Concerned how every tiny straw break my back
And the rope that holds me is getting loose
I need it around me
I’m exhausted.
I’m glad the ground is trampled under me
And I feel the sky aware of my weaknesses
my sensitivity simply ran out
I want you to scream
Even though nothing happened yet.
This symposium must end, I say
And direct the traffic to someone else
Everyone tells me I’m indifferent.
I am sensitive.
I remember how to feel.
I just feel bad.
Once again I suck on a stalk, left behind
I feed off scraps
And I have had my fill
My birds flew away
Leaving behind only a desert
All the wires are here
But nothing’s connected.
The love you took I borrowed from a neighbor
And I’ll have nothing to return when she’ll come claiming
I can do it all
I can make it good
I know how to love
I just feel bad
This is not a good time to be writing poetry.
The Official music video.
