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My dear friend, I do not write these words
For you, but for myself. I write these words
For the pupa that has died, I write these words
Without pride but with illusions. I call these words
Hope. I crawl along with ancient rope, these words
Are scrawled upon the seams of my clothes, words
That sprawl, a river of ants that flows, these words.
Yaacov David Shulman