restricted access Epiphany, 1937
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EPIPHANY, 1937 The flowering sea and the mountains in the moon's waning the great stone close to the Barbary figs and the asphodels the jar that refused to go dry at the end of day and the closed bed by the cypress trees and your hair golden; the stars of the Swan and that other star, Aldebaran. I've kept a hold on my life, kept a hold on my life, traveling among yellow trees in driving rain on silent slopes loaded with beech leaves no fire on their peaks; it's getting dark. I've kept a hold on my life; on your left hand a line a scar at your knee, perhaps they exist on the sand of the past summer perhaps they remain there where the north wind blew as I hear an alien voice around the frozen lake. The faces I see do not ask questions nor does the woman bent as she walks giving her child the breast. I climb the mountains; dark ravines; the snow-covered plain, into the distance stretches the snow-covered plain, they ask nothing 91 neither time shut up in dumb chapels nor hands outstretched to beg, nor the roads. I've kept a hold on my life whispering in a boundless silence I no longer know how to speak nor how to think; whispers like the breathing of the cypress tree that night like the human voice of the night sea on pebbles like the memory of your voice saying "happiness." I close my eyes looking for the secret meeting place of the waters under the ice the sea's smile, the closed wells groping with my veins for those veins that escape me there where the water-lilies end and that man who walks blindly across the snows of silence. I've kept a hold on my life, with him, looking for the water that touches you heavy drops on green leaves, on your face in the empty garden, drops in the motionless reservoir striking a swan dead in its white wings living trees and your eyes staring. This road has no end, has no relief, however hard you try to recall your childhood years, those who left, those 92 lost in sleep, in the graves of the sea, however much you ask bodies you've loved to stoop under the harsh branches of the plane-trees there where a ray of the sun, naked, stood still and a dog leapt and your heart shuddered, the road has no relief; I've kept a hold on my life. The snow and the water frozen in the hoofmarks of the horses. 93 ...


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