I passed by the school where I studied as a boy
and said in my heart: here I learned certain things
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I passed by the school where I studied as a boy
and said in my heart: here I learned certain things
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Mr. Beringer, whose son
fell at the Canal that strangers dug
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The first rain reminds me
Of the rising summer dust.
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The little park planted in memory of a boy who fell in the war begins
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Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
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Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial,
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Let the memorial hill remember instead of me,
that's what it's here for. Let the par in-memory-of remember,
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Yad Mordechai. Those who fell here
still look out the windows like sick children
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They amputated Your thighs from my waist.
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"What kind of a person are you," I heard them say to me.
I'm a person with a complex plumbing of the soul,
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On Rabbi Kook's Street
I walk without this good man--
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Out of three or four in the room
One is always standing at the window.
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My child wafts peace.
When I lean over him,
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There is a street where they sell only red meat
And there is a street where they sell only clothes and perfumes. And there
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You mustn't show weakness
and you've got to have a tan.
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On a little hill amid fertile fields lies a small cemetery,
a Jewish cemetery behind a rusty gate, hidden by shrubs,
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An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion
And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy.
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All night the army came up from Gilgal
To get to the killing field, and that's all.
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And we shall not get excited. Because a translator
May not get excited. Calmly, we shall pass on
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I don't Know if history repeats itself But I do know that you don't.
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I have become very hairy all over my body.
I'm afraid they'll start hunting me because of my fur.
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I know a man
who photographed the view he saw
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Do not accept these rains that come too late.
Better to linger. Make your pain
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Once a great love cut my life in two. The first part goes on twisting
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Memorial day for the war dead. Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
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Half the people in the world love the other half,
half the people hate the other half.
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The memory of my father is wrapped up in
white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day at work.
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On a roof in the Old City
Laundry hanging in the late afternoon sunlight:
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A precise woman with a short haircut brings order
to my thoughts and my dresser drawers,
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