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All material on this site copyright 2020 by Yaacov David Shulman
You Are a Cloud, a Fuzzy Swarm
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?
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Yaacov David Shulman