A paperback novel was left under the tree,
It was one of those massive tomes that contain Everything, the entire story Of a clan, from Rome to Algiers to Lorraine And in the end you had to say they were right, They were all right, it’s how each writer Shone his light—one known for his flights Of fancy, the other known as a fighter. After all, if you’ve been on the roof Enough times, trying to get That sun-bleached look in your laundry, The story-teller will famously let You have some slack, and certainly Your whole building is filled with saints, The whole neighborhood raised this tower Chose the colors and paid for the paints, And most of all, the street lights burn From Frankfort to London, from London to Bern, The light will flood the streets of Berlin. A woman is crushing cloves in a quern, A man is washing the stones of the road, The horses are stumbling, the riders fall, Can you imagine a road without fear And the light that is mixed in the waterfall?
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Yaacov David Shulman
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