Wind blew, light drew them all. <br />New songs revive their mornings. <br />Only I, small bird, am forsaken <br />under the Shekhina’s wing. <br /> <br />Alone. I remain alone. <br />The Shekhina’s broken wing <br />trembled over my head. My heart knew hers: <br />her fear for her only son. <br /> <br />Driven from every ridge – <br />one desolate corner left – <br />in the House of Study she hides in shadow, <br />and I alone share her pain. <br /> <br />Imprisoned beneath her wing <br />my heart longed for the light. <br />She buried her face on my shoulder <br />and a tear fell on my page. <br /> <br />Dumbly she clung and wept. <br />Her broken wing sheltered me: <br />“scattered to the four winds of heaven; <br />they are gone, and I am alone”. <br /> <br />It was an ancient lament <br />a suppliant cry I heard <br />in that lost and silent weeping, <br />and in that scalding tear.<br /><br />Hayyim Nahman Bialik<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/alone-567/
