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7 South Wind Westward the sea merges with a mountain range. On our left the south wind blows and drives us mad, the kind of wind that strips bones of their flesh. Our house among pines and carobs. Large windows. Large tables for writing you the letters we've been writing so many months now, dropping them into the gap of our separation to fill it up. Star of dawn, when you lowered your eyes our hours were sweeter than oil on a wound, more joyful than cold water to the palate, more peaceful than a swan's wings. You held our life in the palm of your hand. After the bitter bread of exile, at night if we remain in front of the white wall, your voice approaches us like the hope of fire; and again this wind hones a razor against our nerves. Each of us writes you the same thing and each falls silent in the other's presence, watching, each of us, the same world separately the light and darkness on the mountain range 10 and you. Who will lift this sorrow from our hearts? Yesterday evening a heavy rain and again today the covered sky burdens us. Our thoughts— like the pine needles of yesterday's downpour bunched up and useless in front of our doorway— would build a collapsing tower. Among these decimated villages on this promontory, open to the south wind with the mountain range in front of us hiding you, who will calculate for us the cost of our decision to forget? Who will accept our offering, at this close of autumn? 11 ...


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MARC Record
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