(After all, how far is heaven
From here? Inside my skull, it seems A jumble. Angels, true, and fences, I myself have smashed my dreams,) And there is the soul, straining to Emerge, and the stuffed river In the soul, it wants to flow, Flow, and it can barely shiver. No one knows. Here come the medicine Men, I mean they’re really kind, Instead of showing her her vistas, Water surging through a blind Alley, nostrums, formulas, Donkeys bearing panniers that carry Stale, flat bread, and there She is, bereft and solitary.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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