The Village of My Fathers
I wonder what it looks like. Earlocked men with caftans,
Women with their wigs and Hannah in their eyes,
Hasidim, drunk with piety and narcotic prayer,
This village I never saw nor my father either.
Unlike New England’s land except, perhaps, for climate.
Men in grim solitude and women who did all work.
How strange a land it was, one people living absent-mindedly
In the country of another, island sinking in water’s hate.
One countryman they had there though, a lad and his mother
And loved they are and were as none have ever been.
From Nazareth they hail, this woman and her boy.
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