A Short Story: The Poet of Uz
There was no rabbinic academy then, no definitive text—only scrolls that wandered from town to town like goats, a few psalms humming under their breath, a few laws clean and sharp as a knife’s new edge. Prophets came and went as sandstorms do: sudden, convincing, then gone. The poet—let us call him simply the poet—kept his own counsel, carried a knife and an abacus, and learned the shapes of rumors. [Sam Ben-Meir]
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