Jerusalem Bus Stop

As a black and white picture,
The sun lightened his face,
Showing his wrinkles,
And his calloused hands,
That in a quick movement,
Searches cigarettes and a match.
He looked around, as in the break of work,
Looked at me and moved his head,
Kind of requesting solidarity,
To his human needs.

The cigarette at his mouth,
His broken and rigid lips,
And the match in his hand.

The fire went straight to the cigarette,
As was part of its destiny,
Although he already knew,
As master of this art.
Cause smoking ain’t an option,
Is a way out,
Of this reality,
In which he spoke in Arabic,
And I answered in Hebrew.