Poem

Dovid Hofshteyn

ca. 1919

On Russian fields, in the twilights of winter!
Where can one be lonelier, Where can one be lonelier?
The doddering horse, the squeaking sleigh,
the path under snow—that is my way.
Below, in a corner of the pale horizon,
still dying, the stripes of a sad fallen sun.
There, in the distance, a white wilderness,
where houses lie scattered, ten…
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