I'd like to finish with two poems.
Because Jerusalem is a town of tourists,
I would like to finish with two poems.
The first is called "Tourist," and the other next is called,
the last one, "Tourists."
But, actually, in spite of all I've said before,
I think we need sometimes actually tourists
to make us feel good about Jerusalem.
You know, because I think all people need
someone else to tell them what a marvelous place
you are living in.
And a lot of people in this city have been asking me,
said, don't you think it's a marvelous place?
And I really do think so.
And you really need it.
No, I mean, you--
"you" includes also me.
It doesn't mean you.
It means you and the-- one needs it.
Anyhow, in these little poems, there's
a mentioning of a place called Katamon,
which is one of the quarters of new Jerusalem.
"Tourist."
"She showed me her swaying hair in the four winds
of her coming.
I showed her some of my folding ways of life
and the trick and the luck.
She asked after my street and my house, and I laughed loudly.
She showed me this long night and the interior
of her 30 years.
I showed her the place where I once laid the feeling.
She showed me the stages of joy and my childhood stubble.
I revealed to her that King David is not buried in his tomb
and said, I don't live in my life.
But I was reflecting, and she was eating.
The city map lay open on the table--
her hand on Katamon, my hand on hers.
The cup covered the old city.
Ash dropped on the King David Hotel,
and an ancient weeping allowed us to lie together."