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My day—
Is punctured like a sieve,
And ridiculed like a whim.
May winter whiteness blossom,
May autumns turn gray,
May summers whistle—
Become nightingales.
When a rye-wind
Would have twisted my…
Contributor:
Kadya Molodovsky
Places:
Date:
1935
Subjects:
Categories:
Public Access
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Always, by the time the humid, breathless, summer night lifted its veil and a quiet, rosy dawn emerged, when some glimmers of soft, opaque light began to filter through the dried muddy, dusty window…
Contributor:
Dovid Mitzmacher
Places:
Date:
1926