Sometimes, it crashes. The bird bashes
Into the windshield, the airplane smashes, Everything stops—but a plume of smoke-- And the light crumbles into ashes. That package you were rushing to Deliver, you sag, you fall to your knees, You crawl to the curb, everything Has turned into facsimiles. Your hands are weak and numb. You think: Life that has made me sick can make Me well. And in the center of the gray Chaos forms the tree in daybreak. Even when the aperture Is small, you still can take a photo, You will still see the light, the rushing Stream, the streamers of Kyoto, And everything you do, every Movement of your hands is light, But not yet, not until The white mountains rise in flight. But the darkness still fills your throat. I know why we are here, to hew A rock from this quarry, to carry A priceless treasure in a canoe. You were all there, weren’t you, From the start? Now it’s harder, now The tribe is hidden, now every One behind his own plow. But listen, we’re no longer children And we can free the sun that sank Deep into the soil, and find The silver in the riverbank.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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