Poorimole · High-Quality & Ultimate

Above, the child whispered into the hole: “I see you, little mole. Happy Purim.”

“What reversal could there be for me?” Schmuel whispered to a passing earthworm. “I am a mole who remembers nothing but dark. My feast is roots. my mask is my own face.” poorimole

He began to dig upward. Not to leave the earth, but to leave a small tunnel open—just in case, next year, the child dropped another crumb of joy. Above, the child whispered into the hole: “I

Deep under the garden, where the old rose bushes tang their roots like forgotten prayers, lived a mole named Schmuel. He was called the poorimole by the other burrowing creatures—not because he lacked worms or tunnels, but because his eyes, two tiny black beads, always seemed to be weeping. Not tears, exactly. A kind of dampness, as if the weight of the earth above pressed sorrow out of him. My feast is roots