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16 Bashevis In a strange tongue They tell us is mute, You spoke for those who now Peddle their gabardine dreams Six feet beneath the earth. What Warsaw was then . . . When Krochmalna Street bustled With Jew after unsuspecting Jew, You refused to surrender, Long after the hateful race Disfigured each face And charred hope forever— A layer of powdered ash. A swank continent away, On some unholy day, You lit the only candle worth saving; One tiny flame flickered In a miserable heart. To say the distant madness Never touched you in America Dismisses the dozen dibbuks, Howling by your back door, Dying to tear at your soul. Ah, noble Bashevis— Spinner of improbable yarns, Mystical seeker of vision; Where do you sleep tonight? Your hairless head heavy, Your pen poised and ready To write the family name Upon every dusty tomb of life. —for Isaac Bashevis Singer ...

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