The light is on, but inside
The light is turning off. Charcoal On our palms streaks the grass, The trees. Because the whole Picture is too bright, the stones Too round, the green too green, Because the freedom of the air And leaves is frightening, the clean Freedom of our eyes, the little bridge. But our return as we reorient, Gives life again to the meadow inside, The birds sing more, our eyes assent.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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October 2019
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