Ne’ilah

Herman Taube

1986

Wherever we stand to lift our eyes to heaven, that place is a Holy of Holies.

—S. Ansky

The sun descending settling
on the roof of the synagogue.
The cantor faces the open Ark,
His exhausted voice sounds hoarse.
My lips are dry, my mouth bitter,
My irritable tongue feels
a burning sensation, sends flash
signals to my brain, while my stomach
blow…
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