The days, the days they break to fade.
What fills them I’ll forget.
Every touch and smell and taste.
This sun, about to set
can never last. It breaks my heart.
Each joy feels like a threat:
Although there’s beauty everywhere,
its shadow is regret.
Still, something in the coming dusk
whispers not to fret.
Don’t matter that we’ll lose today.
It’s not tomorrow yet.
Kate Tempest
Saturday, March 29, 2025
Poem: The Point
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The gravel road rides with a slow gallop over the fields, the telephone lines streaming behind, its billow of dust full of the sparks of the...
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If you have the words, there's always a chance that you'll find the way. Seamus Heaney, Stepping Ston...
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Tell me: how is this night different, from all other nights? How, tell me, is this Passover, different from other Passovers? Light the lamp,...