Every day the children run on the playground
They run on their little legs, which rotate the planet like
a circus
They want to be acrobats and magicians
Every night the children thank us for having brought them
into the world
With beautiful politeness, they take their gifts and with
their small arms they
Cling to the future stubbornly, as they cling to their
parents, and their toys.
Then they lie on their backs
In order to paint beautiful skies
Like the ceilings of the synagogue.
And I forgave my parents for having made me.
I sit next to the children until they fall asleep
And I say seven times
As the closing prayer of Yom Kippur
“I am not God.”
Seven times
“I am not God.”
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