The purpose was to return to those battlefields, scenes of conflict. The realization of the ART PROJECT – transformed them into life giving sources. The collection of sands from distant desert spots was the actual personal infusion linking its historical meaning with actuality. The Sinai Desert Project involving life with Bedouin tribes, was a purifying process, like the Hebrew tribes moving from slavery to freedom. The "Sand Tent" in the Negev with a Bedouin tribe and Kibbutz members – served as a bridge between people and cultures. The other art projects in dense industrial areas; a harbor, factories, New York acted as liaisons between the living desert culture, transforming space and people.

The canvas serves as a page of my private and social journal,

The reflection of the day from inside and from outside .

Since it is on a canvas, it is a painting .

A work of art that is namely a page from a personal

Journal, an advertisement board .

Then, and as the letters are a measuring sign of the IN

One may say that it is Dark .

Haunting depressions are reflected in words

And colors. The soul's growing old, and the loss

Of faith. Humanity

Is walking moonstruck, with no faith, no hope .

This board displays a chaos of words with no meaning.

Words with no past or future. Somnambulist

Words, a black stream poured out

Of the oil drainages of the Sahara, of Feisal's

Luxurious palaces straight into the dark, melodramtic

Courts of Golda's house. Straight from the hands

Of the robust youth, who has lost his strength and patience.

One has to read these words

As a bitter protest coming from a world

Of expectations and dreams; and where does one march to,

If not inside a dream?

To live in a dream, in the imaginary, isn't that

A refuge from the inner light?

Please watch this notice-board for the most unexpected

Alterations. Be ready. It might change any hour,

Any day. (M.S,/'74)

A fateful day for the Palestinian people

My vision has become reality. I foresaw

Misfortune for the people of Israel .

When I returned to Earth by means of eartl

It was an alarm

Against materialism. The Palestinians may raise their head.

Darkness reigns in the country .

One must return now to Work .

To hand-made production ,

Straight and hard work ,

Everybody in their field & develop

A humanist cultural-scientific consciousness .

 

THE POEMS ARE THE SOURCE OF THE SUB-CONSCIENCE & THE BASIS FOR THE PROJECTS .

As if I was, and wasn't

In everything,

And all, a voice

Crying in the wilderness: wake up!

From the drunken stupor, as if you were not hiding

Inside masses of crocodile flesh.

A dreary jackal howl, dreaded, troubled, anxious,

Spelling out errors scanned and scrutinized,

Which call, engulf exhaust, block, crumble, destroy,

Turn pale, play tricks; words,

Inadequate words with no vibration, no

Flesh. Mere twaddle, they melt flesh, strip skin

And veins. The skeleton is left bare. Cover yourself,

You'll catch cold.

Threat, instant threat for the gulf

Which keeps coming and going.

In the heart's humdrum struggle, the drumbeat of fear

Is getting near,

Fearful palpitations, as if – nothing, as if

Silenced. Nothing, as if it were going day and

Night is in the mist. The song

Of childhood melted away, vanished. The mist

Has no meaning. God has no meaning.

The voice has meaning to note. There is

No meaning, as such, to anything. No meaning, nor

Any warrant, to the jealous and Destructive God, not

A single mile, not a single inch;

He went on and on towards the Good and – fell flat.

Triumphant – and losing ground, overcoming – and turning into

Thin air. It could have been a dream that has faded away

In the mists of the night; a nothing, a phantom

That has vanished and melted

Away. A tiny bloodsucker takes away

Your most precious, the most precious in man,

Winks and eye; and the eye turns silent

And is no more. Sucks and pumps out the best

Of your blood. Take, and give. Take –

And give. No crocodile – it's dead! Take-and-give

Still sucks and sucks, till there's no more.

I was just

Walking on thin rope and almost fell. I need

That space – to get up and act. The space of Thought.

The space of action, and disposition. I can't bear

The racking of the nerves, the sucking of blood.

I can't bear to be caught by the flesh – I want

The freedom of myself, of my flesh. To wear a long white robe

The piety of a hermit, to bear on my shoulders

The pain of the journeys long and short.

I am nothing

As though I were not and am not, vanished. And I was as if

I wasn't

In a barren wilderness, and I fell into Yeshimmon,

I had no more

Strength. No more tasks of negotiations,

No more burdens of incidents,

Nothing more on my minced flesh.

Nothing more whatsoever. Life's come to standstill,

And I shall be

A barren desert closed to invaders. ('74)