It began as sketch poetry—doodled fragments, half-thoughts, small openings in the day where something deeper tried to speak. Over time, those fragments became a discipline of listening: sitting with the unsaid, tracing the thin line between memory and myth, embracing my introversion, and letting language arrive without force.

What I released yesterday is the artifact of that practice—a work shaped by silence, lineage, and the slow courage of returning to myself.

This book carries the weight of years I spent learning how to speak my own truth after institutions and dogmatic ideologies tried to teach me otherwise. It carries memories like the scent of geraniums from childhood mornings in Israel, the echo of Har Ramon, the breath of every ancestor who taught me that poetry is not decoration—it is survival, architecture, and prayer.

Publishing it feels less like a debut and more like a threshold. A beginning disguised as a completion.

I wrote The Poet to honor the sacredness of language, the discipline of restraint, and the beauty that emerges when we stop performing and start listening. Every choice—from the content to the cover art—was made to protect that sacredness. If this book finds its way into the hands of those who need it, I’ll be grateful. And if it simply exists as a testament to the work I’ve done to reclaim my voice, that is enough.

Thank you to everyone who has walked with me—quietly, consistently, without applause.

This book is for you.