15.11.2025

In this driving, blinding, crushing rain, 

There's little to nothing that can be seen, 

Beyond the house across the street;

Even the bright, port crane lights are gone. 

I dreamt, last year, of a massive flood, 

That swallowed the jettys that lie in the Bay

And went on to eat the docks, 

The port, Bat Galim, and the Lower City

And as the waves white caps lashed hard 

The houses, and cracked their graffiti'd facades,

The concrete block, brick and rock 

Walls b'neath gave way, and fell 

The kiosks, cafés, Tambours, makolets, 

All seemed to sigh, surrender, and sink.

The old Russian men who ran shops in Hadar,  

Soviet, and stoic, shrugged and drank tea

The Christian Arabs all fervently prayed, 

Masjid minarets played Al Adhan

And as the waters continued to rise 

Threatening us, atop Har HaCarmel

News 12 said that "..well, of course,

the new Ark has long already been built,"

Then went on to say, "...but there's only room, 

for Bibi, Sarah, and the Haredim".

And while I stood at my kitchen window,

Looking out as my city drowned,  

'Twas the raven I envied, who'd refused to return 

And not at all, the supplicant dove.