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By Yisroael Ben Simcha
Understanding all the tapestry.
Woven cloths that make me sing.
I love the tapestry of trees.
Woven, yet people see what I cannot
Children learn like me.
Yet I cannot see their tapestry.
Their knowledge is centered.
Mine is not.
I still hear the voice of my Aunt.
Willing and promising
Safely I feel safe with her.
I don’t need religious clerics, rabbis, reverends, in-between.
I need solitude.
I don’t need mouthfuls of emptiness anymore
Where are they in Sainsbury’s when
I need them?
Only one ever believed me.
Oh! But I had men cry for me.
Sh! But I cried to women over what happened.
They could not see me
I was in a fog on a boat.
Being taken and rowed.
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