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A long time ago one kid
would shower snowballs up on us
his name was Moshe
neighbour's ewe lamb,
once he drowned my family's cat
after pricking it all over with
his mother's tailor needle.
He didn't apologise didn't look back.
He'd laugh when I would kiss you
beneath the willow right on your reddish cheek
sort of a ripe midsummer's fruit
when our dry lips hadn't already
been wading through the childhood
to the dewy land.
And Moshe was working together
with his father veterinarian -
latex gloves, scissors
patching up the gashes for curs
puttin'em to sleep due to the rabies,
the birds would withdraw from the sky
when Moshe would spend his night-time
on a loft sewing up the tails of the mice
after tearing them off
without any prayer, Lord,
without a touch.
Moshe had a scar below his eye
he was born marked,
genes, my dear,
that's a gene of scalpel and needle,
and it's uncertain what they'd been doing
with our parents's cats
in the childhood.
I met him at abandoned temple recently,
Moshe, he was meshed
into the bindweeds
fogged from eternal shade
demented from birdsongs
wale-marked by God,
or by Lucifer, or perhaps by me
I swear I can't remember
it's a long time we are seeking ourselves
for each other at this temple
you never know there's a chance
we are simply insane.