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A Poem for Ōfunato
Huddled and cold, many so elderly, evacuees making their way
The clasped hands of a woman scouring a newspaper’s names
The tears of survivors greeting for the first time
(First, the gratitude of life; then, the whispers of death)A city: obliterated. Small universes: annihilated.
Now, calm. Now, digging—not to rebuild but to bury the dead
There, I saw a carpenter’s plane and unbroken cup
A reminder of something past and something ahead—Kenneth Cukier
2011.
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