9. The Harbor Is Old
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9 The harbor is old, I can't wait any longer for the friend who left for the island of pine-trees or the friend who left for the island of plane-trees or the friend who left for the open sea. I stroke the rusted cannons, I stroke the oars so that my body may revive and decide. The sails give off only the smell of salt from the other storm. If I chose to remain alone, what I hoped for was solitude, not this kind of waiting, my soul shattered on the horizon, these lines, these colors, this silence. The stars of night take me back to the anticipation of Odysseus waiting for the dead among the asphodels.* When we moored here among the asphodels we hoped to find the gorge that saw Adonis wounded. H ...



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