Days of the Tel-Aviv Conservatory

The belief that the essence of motion is its contradiction
And that its goal is the respite.
A sound beat, since there is no beating sound.
And even at its highest peaks
a canister of the bourgeois soul.
Thoughts that have not crossed my mind
When everything was imaginary nature
And suffering was lessened by scales.
The spaciousness of imprisoned soul, reception and hoarding,
I did not look through the window, outside