The houses huddle upon
The Onyar River; the men Walking, the women hanging Their washing, have forgotten Who they are; in the brilliant Sunlight they have no faded past; The street’s dust never was stirred, The depth of memory amassed Upon these stones, upon this Study hall, where scholars till The soil of heaven’s fields, and Trace the roots down through its still, Dark mysteries to these loud, Lighted streets or narrow shadowed Streets that cry out, “Here, now!” And show this fragment of the road.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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October 2019
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