The tongue is a wad of flesh. It turns
The soul into words. Our souls crowd Around the tongue, seeking to Reveal themselves. Seeds that were plowed Under push at the soil, tendrils Seek the hollow spaces between The soil, they burst through there, They seek the air of the ravine, If not for the soil, no tendril would ever Grow, the soil holds back the grass, The tree, because the soil itself is rich, Allows the mountain and crevasse.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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