The hunger is for the word between us,between outside and in, between Europeand America, between the Jew and his other,the word and the non-word.In the museum case, belief has been sealedbehind glass. The gold Yod, fist-shapedwith extended finger, marks where the letteris made free, davar twining aleph into thing.The hunger was once for textured cloth, brocadeof thread, gold-webbed damask, tessellate fringe,for sewn-in weight of lead or brass, the chanterlifting all heaviness from the page, singing outlost richness. He followed the gold yod of divining,alchemic word intoning the throne’s measure indiscarded lexicons of cubits and myriads. The clothlay over Europe’s open scroll between Athens and Jerusalem,between library and dream. What if Athens were to beentered only via the syllogism or Jerusalem’s skywere written over in fiery labyrinth, in severe figures,unerring texts? The hunger was for the lost worldthat lay between Jerusalem and Athens. Later, terrorscame to be its portion, flames beyond remonstrance,synagogue and worshiper in ash. Celan in the Seinewith its syllabary. The words were as burls in woven cloth.They lie across the lettered scroll, ink on paperenveloped in darkness, desperate to be inmixedwith matter. The words were between us, poisedto rise into constellated night as task unto the city,to enter this place unshielded between the Oneand nothingness, if only to exist as from an echobetween hope and horror, between sacred soundand profane air. Between Athens and Jerusalem and America.