All those little seeds littering
The ground, the dirty sky, the ripples Of the lake, the boulders and The rough bark, the rough stipples Of thoughts that do not reach peace, Parallel, invisible, It is, for sure, one, that Creates, in your visible Night sky, the indigo, Without it you grow ill, you Require intubation, your clothes Are strewn, your volumes are askew. This was the story of your mother, It is the story of the boy Who doesn’t speak your language. There is an ocean and a buoy. You do not see the ocean and You do not hear the buoy. The ships Sail. You know the feeling of The deck, the rearings and the dips. A wave is coming, it is ten Stories high, otherwise, You never would have been so brave To see that beauty with your eyes.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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October 2019
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