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138 ∂ yoM kiPPUr ‫ונחמה‬ ‫אבל‬ ‫שירי‬ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫מ‬ ָ ‫ד‬ ֲ ‫א‬ ‫ר‬ ֵ ‫ה‬ ַ ‫מ‬ ְ ‫ל‬ ‫י‬ ִ ‫ל‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ‫ל‬ ֹ ּ ‫פ‬ ִּ ‫ת‬ ְ ‫יך‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ‫י‬ ִּ ‫ת‬ ְ ‫ב‬ ַ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫א‬ ,‫י‬ ַ ‫ד‬ָ‫י‬ ‫ֹת‬‫ו‬‫ע‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ְ ‫צ‬ ֶ ‫א‬ ‫ין‬ ֵּ ‫ב‬ —‫ים‬ ִ‫נ‬ ָ ‫ימ‬ ִ ‫ס‬ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫יר‬ ִ ‫ֹת‬‫ו‬‫מ‬ ‫ת‬ ֶ ‫כ‬ ֶּ ‫ת‬ ַ ‫ּמ‬‫ו‬ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫יח‬ ִ ‫ר‬ ְּ ‫פ‬ ,‫ה‬ ָ ‫צ‬ ְ ‫מ‬ ֻ‫ח‬ ְ‫ו‬ ‫ץ‬ ֵ ‫ע‬ ,‫ע‬ ַּ ‫ב‬ ְ ‫צ‬ ֶ ‫א‬ ָ ‫ה‬ ‫י‬ ֵ ‫ט‬ ְ ‫מ‬ ִ ‫ק‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ;‫ן‬ ֶ ‫ר‬ ֹ ּ ‫פ‬ ִּ‫צ‬ ַ ‫ה‬ ‫ֹן‬‫ו‬‫ר‬ ֲ ‫ה‬ ַ ‫ס‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ּ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫ל‬ ָ ‫ק‬ ְׁ ‫ש‬ ִ ‫מ‬ ‫ת‬ ֶ ‫א‬ ‫י‬ ִ ‫ד‬ָ‫י‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ַ ‫יח‬ ִ‫נ‬ ָּ ‫ת‬ ְ ‫יך‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ‫י‬ ִּ ‫ת‬ ְ ‫ב‬ ַ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫א‬ , ּ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫ת‬ ָּ ‫כ‬ ְׁ ‫ש‬ ֶ ‫ח‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ‫י‬ ִּ ‫ת‬ ְ ‫ר‬ ַ ‫פ‬ ָ ‫ח‬ ‫ר‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ֲ ‫א‬ ַּ ‫כ‬ ; ּ ‫ה‬ ָּ ‫ת‬ ִ ‫ּב‬‫ו‬ ‫ם‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ,‫ת‬ ַ ‫ח‬ ַ ‫א‬ ּ‫ו‬‫נ‬ ָ ‫א‬ ְ‫ו‬ ּ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫ֹת‬‫ו‬‫א‬ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫יח‬ ִּ‫נ‬ ַ ‫ּמ‬‫ו‬ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫ב‬ ָׁ ‫ש‬ ‫י‬ ִ‫נ‬ ֲ ‫א‬ ‫ר‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ֲ ‫א‬ ַּ ‫כ‬ , ְ ‫יך‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ְ‫ו‬ ‫ה‬ ָּ ‫ת‬ ַ ‫ע‬ ‫ה‬ ֶ ‫ז‬ ּ‫ו‬‫ל‬ ְּ ‫ת‬ ְׁ ‫ש‬ ִּ‫נ‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ‫ים‬ ִׁ ‫ש‬ ָ ‫ר‬ ‫ׇ‬ ׁ ‫ש‬ ‫יב‬ ִ ‫ב‬ ְ ‫ס‬ ,‫י‬ ַ ‫ד‬ָ‫י‬ ‫ֹת‬‫ו‬ּ‫י‬ ִ ‫ר‬ ָ ‫כ‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ָ ‫יה‬ ֶ ‫ל‬ ָ ‫ע‬ ‫ת‬ ַ ‫ח‬ ַ ‫ֹפ‬‫ו‬‫ט‬ ְ‫ו‬ —‫ּת‬‫ו‬‫ד‬ ְּ‫ג‬ ַ‫נ‬ ְ ‫ת‬ ִ ‫ה‬ ‫א‬ ֹ ‫ל‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ‫י‬ ִ ‫ֹת‬‫ו‬‫א‬ ‫ת‬ ֶ ‫ב‬ ֶ ‫ֹז‬‫ו‬‫ע‬ ‫יא‬ ִ ‫ה‬ ‫ה‬ ָ‫ינ‬ ִ ‫ּב‬‫ו‬ ‫ּת‬‫ו‬‫א‬ ְ ‫ר‬ ,‫ֹר‬‫ו‬‫ע‬ ,‫ר‬ ָ ‫ע‬ ֵּ ׂ ‫ש‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ְ ‫ך‬ ֶ ‫ר‬ ֶ ‫ד‬ ְּ ‫כ‬ ,‫א‬ ָּ ‫ת‬ ‫ר‬ ַ ‫ח‬ ַ ‫א‬ ‫א‬ ָּ ‫ת‬ ,‫ט‬ ֶ ‫ק‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ‫ים‬ ִׁ ‫ש‬ ְ ‫ֹט‬‫ו‬‫נ‬ ‫ן‬ֵ‫י‬ ְ ‫מ‬ ַ ‫ד‬ ְ ‫ל‬ ‫ל‬ ַ ‫ּכ‬‫ו‬‫א‬ ‫א‬ ֹ ‫ל‬ ‫י‬ ִּ ‫כ‬ ‫ד‬ ַ ‫ע‬ ְ ‫ך‬ ֹ ‫ר‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ְ ‫ך‬ ָּ ‫ׇל־כ‬ ּ ‫כ‬ ‫ּף‬‫ו‬ּ‫ג‬ ‫ה‬ ֶ ‫יז‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ְ ‫ל‬ ,‫ה‬ ָּ ‫כ‬ ַ ‫ר‬ ‫ה‬ ָּ ‫ט‬ ִ ‫מ‬ֹ‫ו‬‫יז‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ְ ‫ל‬ .‫ת‬ ֶ ‫ד‬ ֶ ‫ֹל‬‫ו‬‫נ‬ ‫י‬ ִ‫נ‬ ֲ ‫א‬ Remembering the Lives ç 139 PoeMs oF grieF And consolAtion Earth I like how it falls, unhurried, between my fingers, leaving traces of itself in the creases, wood and acid, flower and metal in the crescents of the nails; I like how, when I dig in its darkness, it settles its weight in my hand, at home with its child, and how, when I lay it back around the newly planted roots, patting it down with the flat of my palm, it leaves me again, without resisting. The way hair, skin, sight, mind go, quietly, cell by cell, so gently I can only imagine to what soft bed, what body I am being delivered. ...

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