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II. MYCENAE Give me your hands, give me your hands, give me your hands. I have seen in the night the sharp peak of the mountain, seen the plain beyond flooded with the light of an invisible moon, seen, turning my head, black stones huddled and my life taut as a chord beginning and end the final moment: my hands. Sinks whoever raises the great stones; I've raised these stones as long as I was able I've loved these stones as long as I was able these stones, my fate. Wounded by my own soil tortured by my own shirt condemned by my own gods, these stones. I know that they don't know, but I 37 who've followed so many times the path from killer to victim from victim to punishment from punishment to the next murder, groping the inexhaustible purple that night of the return when the Furies began whistling in the meager grass— I've seen snakes crossed with vipers knotted over the evil generation our fate. Voices out of the stone out of sleep deeper here where the world darkens, memory of toil rooted in the rhythm beaten upon the earth by feet forgotten. Bodies sunk into the foundations of the other time, naked. Eyes fixed, fixed on a point that you can't make out, much as you want to: the soul struggling to become your own soul. Not even the silence is now yours here where the mill stones have stopped turning. October 1935 38 ...


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