Midnight
Jacob Fichman
1929
A late crescent drips, its blood still red,
And the tranquil grasses of the night
Bend their small heads, one upon another,
Slumbering, arm beneath cheek,
In its peaceful light.
A weary wanderer kneels in a field’s straits.
A horse in the meadow raises its head in surprise.
Then one stretches his arm over the world,
And everything congeals…
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