בְּכָלbe-KHOLסְתָוSTAVאֲנִיa-NIמְטַיֵּלme-ta-YELבְּגַןbe-GANסָאקֶרSA-kerבִּירוּשָׁלַיִם,bi-ru-sha-LA-yim,לְבַד,le-VAD,כִּמְעַטkim-ATבְּלִיBLIלַחֲשֹׁב.la-kha-SHOV.עֲלֵיa-LEIהָעֵצִיםha-ei-TZIMהוֹפְכִיםhof-KHIMלִזְהֻבִּים,liz-hu-VIM,חוּמִיםkhu-MIMוַאֲדֻמִּים,va-a-du-MIM,וּמְרַשְׁרְשִׁיםu-me-rash-re-SHIMבַּעֲדִינוּתba-a-di-NUTתַּחַתTA-khatרַגְלַי.rag-LAI.הָרוּחַha-RU-akhהַקְּרִירָהha-ke-ri-RAמַזְכִּירָהmaz-ki-RAלִיLIשֶׁעוֹדshe-ODשָׁנָהsha-NAעוֹמֶדֶתo-ME-detלְהִסְתַּיֵּם.le-his-ta-YEM.יֶלֶדYE-ledקָטָןka-TANרָץRATZלְיָדִיle-ya-DIוְצוֹחֵק,ve-tzo-KHEK,אוֹחֵזo-KHEZבְּיַדbe-YADאָבִיו.a-VIV.אֲנִיa-NIמִתְיַשֵּׁבmit-ya-SHEVעַלalסַפְסָלsaf-SALמֻכָּרmu-KARוְצוֹפֶהve-tzo-FEבָּעוֹלָםba-o-LAMחוֹלֵףkho-LEFלְאַט.le-AT.אֲנִיa-NIנִזְכָּרniz-KARבְּאִמָּאbe-I-maשֶׁלִּיshe-LIשֶׁהָיְתָהshe-hai-TAמְבִיאָהme-vi-Aאוֹתִיo-TIלְכָאןle-KHANכְּשֶׁהָיִיתִיke-she-ha-YI-tiיֶלֶד.YE-led.אִשָּׁהi-SHAמְבֻגֶּרֶתme-vu-GE-retנִגֶּשֶׁתni-GE-shetאֵלַיe-LAIוְשׁוֹאֶלֶתve-sho-E-letבִּנְעִימוּתbi-ne-i-MUTמָהMAהַשָּׁעָה.ha-sha-A.אֲנִיa-NIעוֹנֶהo-NEלָהּ,LA,וְהִיאve-HIמוֹדָהmo-DAלִיliבְּחִיּוּךְbe-khi-YUKHשֶׁמֵּכִילshe-me-KHILשָׁנִיםsha-NIMשֶׁלshelסַבְלָנוּת.sav-la-NUT.
Every autumn I walk through Sacher Park in Jerusalem, alone, almost without thinking. The leaves of the trees turn golden, brown, and red, and rustle gently under my feet. The cool wind reminds me that yet another year is about to come to an end. A small boy runs past me laughing, holding his father's hand. I sit down on a familiar bench and watch the world pass slowly by. I remember my mother, who used to bring me here when I was a child. An older woman approaches me and politely asks what time it is. I answer her, and she thanks me with a smile that contains years of patience.