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Forever: Songs Tel Aviv: [Hamo], 1943
Abraham, Abraham! Call your name now, my heart. We have spent dozens of years together, thinking and talking, in joint action, in concern for the state, society, literature and the Writers' Association.
Your first right, Avraham Broides, as the poet of the house, the family, the working man, the lost, the suffering child. Of course, as a generation you were here for the wars of Israel. For our renewal in the homeland, for the nation's giant enterprise. And in the course of time your poetry expanded and deepened. Nevertheless, at the root of your song is the song of the heart, the song of pain and joy of a man in the land. An examination of the soul that will envelop. You did not pretend to be the agent of global grief. Sister to you in this song, which is Rachel Kineret, which also better to tell about herself and surrounding her. Your poetry does not need interpretations. It enters the heart and enters the heart as long as the heart beats.
You also have the privilege of being the Secretary of the Writers' Association.
Until you got up to be secretary of the Writers' Association, there was no such role or role. From the work of the building Bialik took you to this job. You have not found any routine and no formal procedures. No one has left you a throne or a table, nor a throne. From the beginning you started. Your memory was your primary instrument. There was some sort of disorder in your office. And yet things went well. This way, too, you have achieved considerable achievements in your work. Sometimes we complained about some neglect, but we did not ignore your advantage. You were gifted with the art of humane treatment. You were a super-brother to everyone, an elder brother to a younger brother and a loyal friend to the old-timers. Your room was also a confessional for the needy. Many people came to you sadly and came out of the room. You promised them something. It is possible that here and there an office arrangement was missed, but the amount of grace in you compensated for the loss. And the total of your thirty-six years of work as secretary is beautiful, dignified, and unique.
You were a poet, a secretary, a friend and a great man. Your life history was full of suffering. It is this suffering that has made you happy, and has given you an emotional mind and shared the sorrow of others. Even in the last years of your life, when physical pains have increased in you, you do not give up. From the depths of your suffering you called to the daughter of poetry and she answered you. The sense of approaching death did not paralyze you. As you wrote in one of the last songs: