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20 In my breast the wound opens again when the stars descend and become kin to my body when silence falls under the footsteps of men. These stones sinking into time, how far will they drag me with them? The sea, the sea, who will be able to drain it dry?* I see the hands beckon each dawn to the vulture and the hawk bound as I am to the rock that suffering has made mine, I see the trees breathing the black serenity of the dead and then the smiles—that don't develop—of the statues. 27 ...


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