From gods change prayers are here to stay by yehuda

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from Gods Change, Prayers Are Here to Stay By Yehuda Amichai On the street, one summer evening, I saw a woman writing words on paper unfolded on a locked wooden door. And she folded it and put it between the door and the mezuzah and went away. And I didn't see her face nor the face of the person who would read the note, and I didn't see the words. A stone rests on my desk with the word "Amen" written on it. It is a piece of a tomb, a vestige from a Jewish cemetery destroyed a thousand years ago, in the city where I was born. One word, "Amen," is cut deep into the stone— A hard and final Amen for all that is past and will not return, a soft and melodious amen like a prayer. Amen and amen, and may it be His will. Tombstones break, words pass, words are forgotten, lips that uttered them turn to dust, languages die like people, and other languages are resurrected, gods in the heavens change, gods come and go. Prayers remain forever. A Poor Christian Looks at the Ghetto By Czesław Miłosz Bees build around red liver, Ants build around black bone. It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
41It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, balls, crystals. Poof! Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls Engulfs animal and human hair. Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs, Ants build around white bone. Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax, Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire. The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations. Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down, With one leafless tree. Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way, With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead. He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on, He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor, The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum. Bees build around a red trace. Ants build around the place left by my body. I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole. He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch Who has sat much in the light of candles Reading the great book of the species. What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament, Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus? My broken body will deliver me to his sight And he will count me among the helpers of death: The uncircumcised. A Sioux Prayer Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the winds Whose breath gives life to the world, hear me I come to you as one of your many children I am small and weak I need your strength and wisdom May I walk in beauty Make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Make my hands respect the things you have made
42And my ears sharp to your voice. Make me wise so that I may know the things you have taught your children.

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