| Epidemic |
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| Showing a torn sleeve, with stiff and shaking fingers the old man |
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| [Winter Sketches II: Subway] |
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| The Hebrew of your poets, Zion |
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| My work done, I lean on the window-sill |
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| Out of the hills the trees bulge |
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| Our eldest son is like Ishmael, Jacob is like you |
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| Since Potiphar made you his overseer |
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| Our lives are bitter with service in mortar and brick |
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| If there is a scheme |
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