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Poetry

03/21/2018

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Passover


I stand upon a darkened hill
waiting as did the Trojan sentinels
with no steel in my breast
or cold idea to die for.
I hear now below the mist
the warm music of silence
and the distant birds
sending promises
in this dark night.

And I wait for that tender mercy
to cover our doorsills,
protect us from the
tightening snare,
and lead us to
the promised
table.



By Michael Dallaire