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Literature and Poetry/
Yom Kippur


Between the bottles of soft drinks,

A glass of poison

Was poured for me.

Those who did not flee


And those who did not die

Were killed.

It is possible to remove them,

Eight, eight,

And bless each sleeve

With a hand in it.

And it is possible in tens

To carry them,

And spread the bandages

With brains and blood

And when wishing

To hear the cries,

and not to hear,

the bitter curses

and to finally

to flee from there

in a big helicopter

of life.

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