Ibn Gabirol

Sometimes pus
Sometimes a poem.

Something always bursts out.
And always pain.

My father was a tree in a forest of fathers
Covered in green cotton wool.

Oh, widows of the flesh, orphans of the blood,
I must escape.

Eyes sharp as tin-openers
Opened heavy secrets.

But through the wound on my chest
God peers into the world.

I am the door
To his apartment.

– Yehuda Amichai
(Translator unknown)

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