When I was at the Western Wall,
A sacred place,
I put my face against the stone
And as I did, a bird sang.
It sang to me,
Though I could not see it.
No one else, I know, could hear it.
It must have been in the dry bushes,
Above my head.
We lay our lives against it; pray.
There is a song for us.
I know it now.
Monday, May 14, 2012
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