and the shawls over the women
who ride in them.
The steam rises through the fog
and the iron tracks below
chant a hymn of Exodus.
There are memories of the shtetl
the stone well in the heart of the village
the cool air rising from the deep to the surface.
There are murmurs over muted commotion
but the women's words are veiled
and I can't speak their language-
Not anymore.
The rhymes and rhythms of klezmorim
cannot leave and echo through dreams.
And if not for Jewish guilt,
a hungry ghost today.
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