Translated from Hebrew by Tsipi Keler   Saturday noon, on the beach, the tan grandson burrows into a dug-up basin padded with sand. I observe him from the height of my age, again see my body draw a circle, warm and sticky of a boy pissing in the sand. Time flows between us, a golden froth, and stings my lips with salt. From the sunken mold of the sand mask the boy that I was comes back to me, sprawled, foaming and wallowing, coddled by the sun. A passing cloud suddenly darkens the light, my face takes on the hardness of graying plaster: the short-lived joy, a forgotten image from childhood, all is swept back, dripping between the fingers in the rhythmic beat of retreating waves.     Translated from Hebrew by Tsipi Keler   In the Casino, under Hatzbaya, spring water rumble, imprisoned in coves of concrete, bolting racing spinning to press out powerfully driving a rusty Ferris wheel, a remnant of forgotten fairs. On the torn lattice seat I notice a Druze kid flying, letting out a shout: an unforgettable landscape is suddenly revealed to him. In the dense grasses all around the blackened corpses of tanks, an ashen mound, helmets, abandoned gear roll about, swept south down the river toward a blinding horizon toward places that even from the top of the wheel one can only guess at the distance.     Translated from Hebrew by Tsipi Keler   for Sima and Ephy Eyal   Poetry is a sudden process of verbal compression. I remember well one such illumination: her father was a famous artist who used to load his brush with one bullet many -- to explode on the canvas with first touch. He drew the beautiful head of his daughter and shook his head with pity at my sweaty pages: I feel for the two of you, she doesn`t know yet that a poet is a continuous process of the pain of existence.