by Yakov Azriel

You don’t believe me when I swear that I’m
In love with you. You don’t believe that I
Am telling you the truth. Although I try
Convincing you with pretty words, each time
I write a metaphor, you frown, each rhyme
I make displeases you. My butterfly
Is just a moth, you claim, my clear-blue sky
You disregard, too full of soot and grime.

Of course I love you very much, of course
You are the only star I see at night,
My only sun by day, of course it’s you
I sing about until my throat is hoarse.
You don’t believe a single word (she’s right 
For nothing — nothing — that I say is true).

Yakov Azriel was born in America and moved to Israel at the age of 21. He has published over 140 poems in magazines, and three books of poetry: Threads From A Coat Of Many Colors (Time Being Books 2005), In The Shadow Of a Burning Bush (Time Being Books 2008), and Beads for the Messiah’s Bride (Time Being Books 2009).
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Pat Jones
Published October 3 2010