POEM: One-Sixtieth Prophecy
Near the house,
next to the woodpile,
lies a dream
too weak to enter.
I hold my shadow down as it
tries to escape, shut the windows,
bar the doors, imagine myself
bright and shiny.
I am Joseph in the bor, the pit, empty of water,
but full of scorpions and serpents.
There is no one to listen
to my dreams, no one to interpret them but God.
Or I am Pharaoh.
The interpretations
do not satisfy me, I do not find any relief.
Who will interpret for me?
God will heal you with your own
wounds, declares the prophet Jeremiah.
A message from our Publisher & CEO Rachel Fishman Feddersen
I hope you appreciated this article. Before you go, I’d like to ask you to please support the Forward’s award-winning, nonprofit journalism so that we can be prepared for whatever news 2025 brings.
At a time when other newsrooms are closing or cutting back, the Forward has removed its paywall and invested additional resources to report on the ground from Israel and around the U.S. on the impact of the war, rising antisemitism and polarized discourse.
Readers like you make it all possible. Support our work by becoming a Forward Member and connect with our journalism and your community.
— Rachel Fishman Feddersen, Publisher and CEO
