The Rinsed Fences . . .

Peretz Markish

1919

The rinsed fences dry themselves in the wind.
The kneaded black earth turns softer under my feet.
Soaked soil, tousled and wanton wind,
What more can I want from you today?
It seems to me that I’ve seen you
For the very first time in the world,
And I, a child,
Own you completely today.
Red cattle, their bottoms smeared,
Their udders swollen,
Lie…
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