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Poem	This night is irredeemable. Where you are, it is still bright. At the gates of Jerusalem, a black sun is alight. The yellow sun is hurting, sleep, baby, sleep. The Jews in the Temple’s burning buried my mother deep. Without rabbi, without blessing, over her ashes, there, the Jews in the Temple’s burning chanted the prayer. Over this mother, Israel’s voice was sung. I woke in a glittering cradle, lit by a black sun.
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