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I. SANTORINI Bend if you can to the dark sea forgetting the flute's sound on naked feet that trod your sleep in the other, the sunken life. Write if you can on your last shell the day the name the place and fling it into the sea so that it sinks. We found ourselves naked on the pumice stone watching the rising islands watching the red islands sink into their sleep, into our sleep. Here we found ourselves naked, holding the scales that tipped towards injustice. Instep of power, unshadowed will, considered love, projects that ripen in the midday sun, course of fate with a young hand slapping the shoulder; in the land that was scattered, that can't resist, in the land that was once our land the islands—rust and ash—are sinking.· « • 35 Altars destroyed and friends forgotten leaves of the palm tree in mud. Let your hands go traveling if you can here on time's curve with the ship that touched the horizon. When the dice struck the flagstone when the lance struck the breast-plate when the eye recognized the stranger and love went dry in punctured souls; when looking round you see feet harvested everywhere dead hands everywhere eyes darkened everywhere; when you can't any longer choose even the death you wanted as your own— hearing a cry, even the wolf's cry, your due: let your hands go traveling if you can free yourself from unfaithful time and sink— sinks whoever raises the great stones. Φ ...


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