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From the top of a spire’s tower
A ringing’s heard—once. Again.
In the chasms of night and land of snow
A little village sunken low.
Overnight, human isles of rest
Warmed by the straw.
Close with…
Holy grandmothers in Jerusalem,
May your virtue protect me.
The smell of blossoms and blooming orchards
I suckled with my mother’s milk.
Feet soft as hands, fumbling
In the torrid sand,
And tousled…