This book is in tribute to my father. It brings into focus all the longing we have for an ideal place, the home of our childhood. The idea for it came to me during the mourning period for his passing:
This is the place where he put pen to paper…
But clung to the wall, the shelves are now bare.
All that remains of his words is but vapor …
All you can spot is but a dent in his chair
Six years after I discovered my father’s poems, a moment which happened in my childhood home while mourning for his passing, I present a tender tribute: a collection of poems and prose, half of which is written by me, and half—by my father, the author, poet and artist Zeev Kachel. I have been translating his poems for nearly a year, with careful attention to rhyme and rhythm, in an effort to remain faithful to the spirit of his words.
