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Every soul of cobalt blue
Or cinnamon or Persian red,
Whose colors seep, like bleeding paint,
From gold to green, from a to zed,
Must loose its arrows, clear its eyes,
And see the branches, withered, bare,
And meditate on broken leaves
That drop upon the maidenhair.
Beyond the law that justice bids,
Beyond the scope of human sight,
These colors seep into the ground
To flame the sooty anthracite.
Yaacov David Shulman