Wandering Jew

It doesn’t matter

How many times you tell me

I won’t listen to you

Because if I do …

I’ll be forced to reconcile

As a Wandering Jew

I planted my foot on that grave

So many years ago

I don’t plan to go back

To that land

Where I was attacked

By the men

Known as “cossack”

There was once

A peasant woman

Who carried bread

She

Asked me my Name;

Said “I am not dead.”

Come,

Ride on my horse,

Feel its Mane

Saddle,

Bridle its mouth:

Ride in the rain!

watercolor on paper, 12"x16"