With the madness of Milton she charged her Brigade.
A rambling cat meandering on the streets of Tel Aviv.
Religion was a mere word to her,
Her stances - way before her time.
A lost father, whom she saw perish in the war at the hands of Arabs.
Her themes eluded them Jews.
Anxious alphabets ebbed out of her,
that drove Yona in the asylum bed.
Born to offend, she scribbled in ink.
Her mighty weapon,
lone weapon snatched from her.
Penning to make the readers cringe.
Lewd, lewd Yona.
Lost all.
Her memories
Her colours
Her magic
Her fears were coming,
Her anxieties turned into her corpses.
Her abuses became her victory.
Victory in the form of frowned forehead lines of Israeli's.
Yona, dear Yona,
cajoled with whimsical worldly weeds.
Molecules of images that lay buried for eons.
Neither a man, nor a woman,
Yona bridled senses and feigned dimes.
By
Falguni Panchamatia
The poem is inspired by Israeli poetess Yona Wallach. A few lines have been borrowed from a translation of her poem in Hebrew named "I Have A Stage in My Head".
