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134 ∂ yoM kiPPUr ‫ונחמה‬ ‫אבל‬ ‫שירי‬ ‫את‬ ֵ ׂ ‫ש‬ ָ ‫ל‬ ‫ה‬ ָּ ‫כ‬ ֻ ‫ר‬ ֲ ‫א‬ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫ל‬ ֲ ‫ח‬ ַ ‫מ‬ ‫י‬ ֵ ‫ר‬ ֲ ‫ח‬ ַ ‫א‬ ‫ר‬ ֵ ‫ֹר‬‫ו‬‫ע‬ ְ ‫ת‬ ִ ‫ה‬ ְ ‫ל‬ֹ‫ו‬‫מ‬ ְּ ‫כ‬ , ָ ‫ך‬ ְ ‫ת‬ ָ‫נ‬ ְׁ ‫ש‬ ִּ ‫ב‬ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫ב‬ ָׁ ‫ש‬ ָ ‫ך‬ ְ ‫ּת‬‫ו‬‫יא‬ ִ ‫ר‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ‫א‬ ֹ ‫צ‬ ְ ‫מ‬ ִ ‫ל‬ ֹ‫ו‬ּ‫נ‬ ַ ‫מ‬ ְ ‫ז‬ ‫ֹא‬‫ו‬‫ב‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ‫ג‬ ֹ ּ ‫ס‬ִ‫י‬ ָ ‫ך‬ ְ ‫ר‬ ַ ‫ע‬ ַ ‫צ‬ ָ ‫יך‬ ֶּ‫י‬ ַ ‫ח‬ ְ ‫ך‬ ֶ ‫ר‬ ֹ ‫א‬ ְ ‫ל‬ ָ ‫את‬ ָ ׂ ‫ש‬ ָּ‫נ‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ‫ת‬ ַ ‫ע‬ ַּ‫ד‬ ַ ‫ה‬ ְ‫ו‬ .‫ה‬ ָ ‫ר‬ ָ ‫ּב‬‫ו‬ ‫ה‬ ָ ‫מ‬ ֵ ‫ל‬ ְׁ ‫ש‬ , ַ ‫יע‬ ִ ‫ֹפ‬‫ו‬‫ת‬ ְ‫ו‬ ‫ר‬ ֹ ‫ז‬ ֲ ‫ח‬ ַּ ‫ת‬ ‫ֹד‬‫ו‬‫ע‬ ‫ט‬ ֹ ּ ‫ב‬ ְ ‫ח‬ ַּ ‫ת‬ ‫א‬ ֹ ‫ל‬ ‫ד‬ ָ ‫ח‬ ֶ ‫א‬ ‫ֹם‬‫ו‬‫י‬ ,‫ֹא‬ׂ ‫ש‬ ְּ‫נ‬ ִ ‫מ‬ ‫יר‬ ִ ‫ה‬ ָּ ‫ב‬ ַ ‫ה‬ ‫ֹר‬‫ו‬‫א‬ ָּ ‫ב‬ ‫ית‬ ִ‫ו‬ ָ ‫ז‬ ‫ן‬ ֶ ‫ר‬ ֶ ‫ק‬ ‫ר‬ ַ ‫ח‬ ַ ‫א‬ ‫ּר‬‫ו‬‫ת‬ ָּ ‫ת‬ ‫א‬ ֹ ‫ל‬ . ָ ‫יך‬ ֶ‫ינ‬ ֵ ‫ע‬ ‫ת‬ ֶ ‫א‬ ‫ם‬ ָׁ ‫ש‬ ‫ם‬ ֹ ‫צ‬ ֲ ‫ע‬ ַ ‫ל‬ ‫ֹר‬‫ו‬‫ע‬ ֵּ ‫ת‬ ‫ד‬ ָ ‫ח‬ ֶ ‫א‬ ‫ר‬ ֶ ‫ק‬ ֹ ּ ‫ב‬ ָ ‫יך‬ ֶּ ‫פ‬ ַ ‫ע‬ ְ ‫פ‬ ַ ‫ע‬ ּ‫ו‬‫ד‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ְ ‫כ‬ִ‫י‬ ‫א‬ ֹ ‫ל‬ ְ‫ו‬ ‫ן‬ ֹ ּ ‫כ‬ ְׁ ‫ש‬ִ‫י‬ ‫א‬ ֹ ‫ל‬ ָ ‫ך‬ ְ‫ֹנ‬‫ו‬ ׁ ‫ש‬ ְ ‫ל‬ ‫ל‬ ַ ‫ע‬ ְ‫ו‬ .‫ח‬ ַ ‫ל‬ ֶ ‫מ‬ ‫ל‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ׁ ‫ּש‬‫ו‬ּ‫ג‬ ‫ב‬ ַ ‫ר‬ ‫ן‬ ַ ‫מ‬ ְ ‫ז‬ ָּ ‫ת‬ ְ ‫ר‬ ַ ‫ֹת‬‫ו‬ּ‫נ‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ‫י‬ ֵ‫נ‬ ְּ ‫פ‬ ִ ‫ּמ‬‫ו‬ ,‫ר‬ ֵּ ‫ת‬ ַ‫ו‬ ְ ‫ל‬ ‫י‬ ִ ‫ל‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ ,‫ר‬ ֵּ ‫ת‬ ַ‫ו‬ ְ ‫מ‬ֹ‫ו‬‫ינ‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ‫ם‬ ָ ‫ֹל‬‫ו‬‫ע‬ ְּ ‫ב‬ , ׁ ‫ש‬ ֵּ ‫ק‬ ִ ‫ע‬ ‫ן‬ ַ ‫מ‬ ְּ‫ז‬ ַ ‫ה‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ‫ע‬ ַ ‫ד‬ ֵּ ‫ת‬ ‫ל‬ ֶ ‫ב‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ָ ‫ל‬ ‫ֹל‬‫ו‬‫כ‬ָ‫י‬ ְ‫ו‬ ‫ה‬ ֶ ‫ֹר‬‫ו‬ׂ ‫ש‬ ‫ים‬ ִּ‫נ‬ ַ ‫ט‬ ְ ‫ק‬ ‫ים‬ ִ ‫ד‬ ָ ‫ֹל‬‫ו‬‫נ‬ ‫ים‬ ִ ‫ר‬ ָ ‫ב‬ ְּ‫ד‬ ַ ‫ה‬ ‫ׇל‬ ּ ‫כ‬ ֶׁ ‫ש‬ ְ‫ו‬ ,‫ים‬ ִ ‫ל‬ ֵ ‫ד‬ ְ ‫ּג‬‫ו‬ ‫ים‬ ִ ‫כ‬ ְ ‫ֹל‬‫ו‬‫ה‬ ְ‫ו‬ ‫ֹל‬‫ו‬‫ד‬ ָּ‫ג‬ ‫ד‬ ָ ‫ֹל‬‫ו‬‫נ‬ ‫ל‬ ֶ ‫ב‬ ֵ ‫א‬ ָ ‫ה‬ ‫ק‬ ַ ‫ר‬ .‫ת‬ ֵ ‫ֹח‬‫ו‬‫ּפ‬‫ו‬ ְ ‫ך‬ ֵ ‫ֹל‬‫ו‬‫ה‬ ְ ‫ך‬ ַ ‫א‬ Remembering the Lives ç 135 PoeMs oF grieF And consolAtion Enduring Like awakening after a long illness to find your health stole back in while you slept, your sorrow, in its time, will retreat, and the knowledge you carried all along will re-emerge, whole and cleansed. One day you will not thrash in the too-bright light, looking for a corner in which to close your eyes. One morning the weight will not be there beneath your eyelids, the first thing you wake to; it will not settle on your tongue like a lump of salt. And because you have stayed this long unrelenting, in the unrelenting world, you know that time, though imperfect, is diligent, and wrestles down grief, and that all things are born small and grow large— except grief, which is born large and grows small. ...

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