Oh how I’ve come down
In the world. And these scraps Of mud-smeared ruby and jade Stick to me, to each synapse, And I hose them off, for Decades (at least!), still, Because they clung to my skin, To my soul and will, They gain, they are Already, somewhat, rising, They are ready to be Clean, (which is not surprising, Because they have clung To the soul made in the form—) If not today, then, if not In this home, in another dorm, Rising and now in a form That shines, that can cling To the universe’s eternal Birds that praise, that sing, That sing the splendor Of the crown that—we know And we can’t know—(but If my hair were white as snow, Perhaps I would be there As it rose.) Yes, It rises, yes, it sparkles Till the meadows opalesce.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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