Moyshe Kulbak



Someone in a tales is walking your rooftops.
Only he is stirring in the city by night.
He listens. Old gray veins quicken—sound
Through courtyard and synagogue like a hoarse, dusty heart.
You are a psalm, spelled in clay and in iron.
Each stone a prayer; a hymn every wall,
As the moon, rippling into ancient lanes,
Glints in a naked and ugly-cold…
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