Poet: Avraham Sutskever (b. 1913)
Under Your white stars, Stretch to me Your white hand.
My words are tears, That want to rest in Your hand.
See, their spark dims, Through my penetrating cellar eyes.
And I don’t have a corner from which to return them to You.
And yet I still want, dear God, To confide in You all that I possess,
For in me rages a fire And in the fire—my days.
But in cellars and in holes The murderous quiet weeps.
I run higher, over rooftops And I search: Where are You, where?
Something strange pursues me Across stairs and yards with lament.
I hang—a ruptured string, And I sing to You:
Under Your white stars Stretch to me Your white hand.
My words are tears, That want to rest in Your hand.
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