Poorimole -

And Schmuel, the poorimole, wept—not from sorrow this time, but because even in the dark, someone had looked for him.

“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

Every year around the month of Adar, when the humans above spun noisemakers and dressed in costumes for Purim, Schmuel felt a strange stirring. He would dig toward the surface—not to emerge, but to listen. He heard the story of Esther, read aloud through the soil: a queen who hid her people like seeds in her sleeves, a villain who fell, a reversal written in scrolls. And Schmuel, the poorimole, wept—not from sorrow this

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

(Interpreted as a blend of poor + mole + perhaps Purim — the Jewish holiday of masks and reversal of fortune.) The Poorimole