(”What I want to say is”—he paused, because
He wished he knew what he longed to say.) “The soul”—(he hadn’t said any Thing at all, yesterday He could have said the same)—sparks Scattered into the deep, black Water and winked out, but (He believed) the vivid stack Of the lighthouse flecked its beam Across the sea. He felt it then, The crowding in of yesterday, The waste pits of careless men And a heavy, heavy crow that beat Its slow wings and leaped, its wings Caught the air, a fire lifted up, The sound of calls, of clamorings.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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