The truly great soul
(That isn’t me) [I know] Is so broad that The entire world couldn’t grow Enough rooms for its Sparks or enough wings For its descents or enough People for its love; kings, Clamorings (I say, that’s My stop, that’s what I Can imagine) [you know your what; What about your why?] It meets another river, It lives another life, its tent Is everywhere, it is not bound To any single continent, (breath) (sigh) it breathes Upon all generations; its Words are always spoken People speak its words in fits, In sleep, in rage and in Love, under bridges, between The living room and kitchen, Soon after turning seventeen. The borders of its life Rise beyond borders that Anyone could feel And in its sleep, at Dawn, someone murmurs its Words, a butter-colored glow Inside a breakfast bowl, Golden as the molten notes of the oboe.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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