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Now for something completely different (XLVI)

01 Jul

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Dutch Jewish poet Judith Herzberg shows that the story can be different:

Winter Bethulia

The trees, so suitable for hanging up roaming thoughts,
were cut out this morning and pasted upon a white sheet.
I can even dream the form of some of them and so know
where I have been; the woody shrubs are illumined by the snow
as if it were summer. The sun appeared too low it was so white
and I so red from within and so full of smoke, and mist
that I may hide my intentions. My footsteps, the first
in the new snow, like that of a poacher or a deserter.
I am Judith and I have just kissed and left whole
the neck of Holofernes. I will no longer play their game.

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