|
p o e m s |
s a m u e l m e n a s h e |
| O Lady lonely as a stone Even here moss has grown |
|
One hand cold |
|
Feet east |
| Take any man Walking on a road Alone in his coat He is a world No one knows And to himself Unknown Yet, when he wanders most It is his own way, certain As spheres astronomers note In their familiar motion |
|
Death awaited |
|
Flowers, not bread |
©Samuel Menashe
from THE NICHE NARROWS
New and Selected Poems
Talisman House, Publishers, P.O. Box 3157,
Jersey City,
N.J. 07303-3157;
with permission
next page 