KOHELET

I, Kohelet, was king of Jerusalem.
I really was.
Treading a thousand flowers en route to the white bed
where my wives awaited to remove from my head the crown
made of marzipan in the biting of sweet tongues,
my silk rubbing against their silk, my flesh would choose
among them, and my flesh was sweet in their flesh.
Kohelet, I held a thousand women,
and I didn’t have a single one
I could recognize by smell
or by her skin or her feet,
her steps as she walked away from me: David’s lament.
Her steps toward me: his song.
I am Kohelet, Solomon,
my linen, the mystery of shrouds,
and my bitten crown is above me.

קוהלת

קוהלת