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The flow of light swamps the soul,
It remains white and roaring,
We hear voices, but we don’t hear words,
The fog muffles the boat at the mooring.
And all we have are feelings
About sky, about longing, about fall,
Then a mist, a drizzle, a patter,
And the fog is whipped aside in the squawl.
Yaacov David Shulman