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On this ancient trunk
With hanging branches, gray flax
I’m a young branch.
To grow: my sole passion.
Green shoot
rising
high
to the bright,
I’ll bring red blossoms
to argue:
World, I’m right!
From…
[ . . . ]
I never loved properly . . .
A little Judaic boy,
I was the only one around
To shiver in the steppe wind at night.
Like a sleepwalker, I walked along tram tracks
To silent summer cottages…