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You are a cloud, a fuzzy swarm,
A residue of identity, formless storm,
And I an empty cloud of drives
Of sand, disorganized archives,
The sun pretends to have a core.
The men with bundles on the shore
Carry jewelry to the queen.
Only heat can test the blade.
Lonely, by the palisade,
Courtiers sing; with phrases full,
Exhort. But are their fancies fanciful?
Yaacov David Shulman