by Abba Kovner
No more willful silences.
No more verbal contact,
he who loved to listen to so many
will never again hear his own voice among them.
He will sit with his friends over talk
from now on under constraint.
The talk.
The thoughts.
The friends.
And as he listens through
the secret door
he will turn his inner ear
to the dark mumur: Son of man,
all this
and all this
never was
and never will be
as good as
one living word.
From:
Sloan-Kettering
Copyright ©:
2002, Schocken Books
- Share this Poem:
