Slender deer run over the snowy mountains and their silvery horns prick the moon, but the moon pours goodness over them. My mother keeps them; she follows them carefully and for the wood’s wolves not to send them she erases their tracks on the snow.
My mother died years ago but with her arms stretched out in the wind she keeps on walking her love through the space.
She cradles the uneasiness of the paths; takes away the evil-eye from the little hares and calls the least worm my child.
Neither in her grave if she left alone by her love. Here is that she opens her prayer book at the stars and prays, prays, so God may hear her.
In my sleep her crying shines. –Itzik Manger
Never forget the love and lessons you have been taught. And be selective. Choose to recall what is most meaningful.
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