by Lorin Troderman
Spirals of death in a season of drought
Av reaches in and grabs a friend,
again.
Mourners lament in whispers
“It’s way too early” I shout
We grieve
Each in our own way
But together
On Sunday we will gather by the sea
Temple destruction remembrance day
Our earth, a holy temple assaulted by our ignorance
One less sister to help us reverse the ...
