It doesn’t matter
How many times you tell me
I won’t listen to you
Because if I do …
I’ll be forced to reconcile
As a Wandering Jew
I planted my foot on that grave
So many years ago
I don’t plan to go back
To that land
Where I was attacked
By the men
Known as “cossack”
There was once
A peasant woman
Who carried bread
She
Asked me my Name;
Said “I am not dead.”
Come,
Ride on my horse,
Feel its Mane
Saddle,
Bridle its mouth:
Ride in the rain!
watercolor on paper, 12"x16"
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