The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.
Sometimes they are pears.
At other times, sirens in a basket.
And, not so often, violins
one tunes with a stem.
Pears hold their heads up high,
they have cello-shaped waists and curvy hips.
Buddha adapted their way of sitting
in order to reside inside nothingness.
The pears are dressed in a green suit
with red pockets.
The poets among them wear
a felt fedora with a leaf.
Their single hair jumps to attention
or curves like a whip, raised against
the clayness of the bowl, the pressing of fingers,
The great communist painter
Pablo Picasso framed them into cubes.
With lopped heads, they resemble
their common brethren, the apples.
Their shadow is like sudden excitement,
a breathtaking leap that ends
the murmur of the stem, the echo of the leaf.
—Translated by Ohad Stadler