בְּיוֹםbe-yomחֲמִישִׁיkha-mi-SHIהָאַחֲרוֹןha-a-kha-RONהָלַכְתִּיha-LAKH-tiלְעֶרֶבle-E-revשִׁירָהshi-RAבְּבֵיתbe-VEITקָפֶהka-FEקָטָןka-TANבִּשְׁכוּנַתbish-khu-NATפְלוֹרֶנְטִין.flo-REN-tin.הַחֶדֶרha-KHE-derהָיָהha-YAאֲפְלוּלִי,a-fe-LU-li,נֵרוֹתne-ROTהִבְהֲבוּhiv-ha-VUעַלalהַשֻּׁלְחָנוֹת,ha-shul-kha-NOT,וַאֲנָשִׁיםva-a-na-SHIMלָחֲשׁוּla-kha-SHUבְּשֶׁקֶט.be-SHE-ket.צְעִירָהtze-i-RAאַחַתa-KHATעָלְתָהal-TAלַבָּמָהla-ba-MAוְהִתְחִילָהve-hit-KHI-laלִקְרֹאlik-ROשִׁירshirעַלalבְּדִידוּתbe-di-DUTבָּעִיר.ba-IR.קוֹלָהּko-LAרָעַדra-ADבַּהַתְחָלָה,ba-hat-kha-LA,אֲבָלa-VALלְאַטle-ATלְאַטle-ATהָפַךְha-FAKHלְבָטוּחַle-va-TU-akhוּבָרוּר.u-va-RUR.כַּמָּהka-MAשׁוּרוֹתshu-ROTנָגְעוּnag-Uלִיliבְּדִיּוּקbe-di-YUKבַּלֵּבba-LEVוְהִרְגַּשְׁתִּיve-hir-GASH-tiדְּמָעוֹתdma-OTבָּעֵינַיִם.ba-ei-NA-yim.אַחֲרֶיהָa-kha-REI-haמְשׁוֹרֵרme-sho-RERמְבֻגָּרme-vu-GARקָרָאka-RAשִׁירshirהוּמוֹרִיסְטִיhu-mo-RIS-tiעַלalבַּעַלBA-alהַמַּכֹּלֶתha-ma-KO-letמֵהַיַּלְדוּתme-ha-yal-DUTשֶׁלּוֹ.she-LO.בְּסוֹףbe-SOFהָעֶרֶבha-E-revקָנִיתִיka-NI-tiחוֹבֶרֶתkho-VE-retדַּקָּהda-KAעִםimשִׁירִיםshi-RIMשֶׁלshelכָּלKOLהַמְּשׁוֹרְרִים.ha-me-shor-RIM.חָזַרְתִּיkha-ZAR-tiהַבַּיְתָהha-BAI-taעִםimהַרְגָּשָׁהhar-ga-SHAמוּזָרָה,mu-ZA-ra,כְּאִלּוּke-i-LUהָעִבְרִיתha-iv-RITעַצְמָהּatz-MAהָפְכָהhaf-KHAלְחַיָּהle-kha-YAיוֹתֵר.yo-TER.
Last Thursday I went to a poetry evening at a small café in the Florentin neighborhood. The room was dim, candles flickered on the tables, and people whispered quietly. A young woman climbed onto the stage and began reading a poem about loneliness in the city. Her voice trembled at first, but slowly it grew confident and clear. A few lines touched me right in the heart and I felt tears in my eyes. After her, an older poet read a humorous poem about the owner of the grocery store from his childhood. At the end of the evening I bought a thin booklet with poems by all the poets. I went home with a strange feeling: as if Hebrew itself had become more alive.