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Literature and Poetry/
Yom Kippur

Mira Meir

The Squill

On the sides of the paths in our fields

The squill’s thorns are exposed

And the winds blow through our house

Whispering in my ears that autumn has come

 We take the sweater out from our closet

And we go walking together

The holidays are already passing over us

In their weight – celebratory and sad

The sukkah branches are already spread out over our heads

And we have absorbed the aroma of its perfume

And the last pomegranate in our garden

Has already sung its magical song


There is no choice but for a regular day

We can only wait for the rain to come

And for the quiet of the squill flowers

On the sides of the thirsty fields

Whitening the flowering of the autumn

Against the first golden leaves


Do not say that all will return here

Do not say that this is how it is every year,

Because the sadness passing by

Is as new as a first kiss

And the autumn in young and sings here

In the flowering of the white squill

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