The storm is over. Must be something in the air
A metaphor to keep me silent
Those small snowflakes that are hanging down
Swell likely to drop the iron
Down the river, in our hiding-place
We still not ready for archeology
What I became move us away
From prophesies and from sounds of History
Away from iron windows and flags
The first to remember Benjamin MiTudelo in Sicily
Will still hear the bloody distant milk away.
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