1984-1985 Rothberg Yearbook

the wall
All the dreams are written there
tucked in between the cracks;
women’s dreams
men’s dreams
a people’s dreams (unburdened backs)
folded in between the mosses
echoing through centuries,
whispers, cries, screams
tunnelled through two thousand years
men’s dreams with side-curls,
women’s dreams with covered heads,
a people’s dreams o f peace, all fears
are there, uncovered
for the wall
for that wall has ears, listens
to the wails o f children
who have sunk their dreams in it,
who stare with sunken eyes —
seeking,
praying for a sign,
maybe this time, maybe this time...
tight-lipped, pursed up inside
tucked in across the surface,
nearly conscious,
waiting.;.
SHARI COOPER
Montreal, Canada
O.JERUSALEM
Jerusalem seems to come with a single promise - that it has a secret. And so they come - the curious, the earnest, the partisan, the
proud —to find it, to learn the span of their own souls by unlocking the secret of Jerusalem. They search beneath the dusty carpet
o f its antiquity, view it from the hills, walk its streets brimming with the clang and grind of a modern city, and they wonder: Can it
be here, between the old and the new, hidden beneath the folds of a caftan or a long black cloak, or perhaps even in the green
fatigues of the young soldiers?
After a time the seeker tires. For all the various marvels, no single sight seems to hold the key, as if the secret were too diffuse
to grab in an instant, as if the years had spread and mixed the wonder to confound those who search for it. But given enough time,
enough frustration and even disillusionment, the truth begins to emerge.
For Jerusalem will not tell its secret; that is its secret. It will not offer up the answer that would end its fascination, but rather
draws out the secrets of those who approach it. Jerusalem does not speak; she listens. History has granted her this sad but special
expertise. She listened to the children of slaves as they stepped from the desert to find her. She listened to the songs of David, to
the laws of the Sages, to the rantings of Herod and the final gasps of Yehuda Halevi. The hills of Tsefat will tell magical tales, the
sands of Sinai majestic ones, but the stones of Jerusalem will not speak. They will keep your yearnings, in crumpled notes or
muttered prayer, as they have kept so many for so long, in sympathetic silence. From all over the world for all the ages of history
people have come to Jerusalem to do no more than speak to stones. The world is not lacking in places which offer remarkable
stories or inspiring adventures, but only here will the homliest, most pedestrian cry be heard with the same respect as the decrees of
Kings and the supplications of the holy. ThJs does Jerusalem shine back your soul, and force you to see its true nature. “There are
sermons in stones,” wrote the poet, but not here; the stones of Jerusalem do not sermonize or moralize —they listen. The stones
remain, addressed by each conquering army, each ardent pilgrim, by youth’s aspirations and old age’s regrets. They hear without
speaking; sometimes, they stand on earth to represent one of the faces of God.
DAVID WOLKE
Philadelphia, Penn.
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