In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

1 O Our country is closed in, all mountains that have the low sky for a roof day and night. We have no rivers, we have no wells, we have no springs, only a few cisterns—and these empty—that echo, and we worship them. A stagnant hollow sound, the same as our loneliness the same as our love, the same as our bodies. We find it strange that once we were able to build our houses, huts, and sheepfolds. And our marriages, the cool coronals and the fingers,* become enigmas inexplicable to our soul. How were our children born, how did they grow strong? Our country is closed in. The two black Symplegades* close it in. When we go down to the harbors on Sunday to breathe we see, lit in the sunset, the broken planks from voyages that never ended, bodies that no longer know how to love. 1 S ...


Back To Top

This website uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience on our website. Without cookies your experience may not be seamless.