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FINE AUTUMN MORNING For Mrs. Dononko There, you see, at last I love these mountains with this light their skin wrinkled like an elephant's belly when his eyes shrink with age. There, you see, I love these poplars, few as they are, raising their shoulders into the sun. The tall Ghegs and the short Tosks* summer with the sickle and winter with the axe the same things again and again, the same movements in the same bodies: the monotony is broken. What's the Muezzin saying from the top of his minaret? Listen! He's leaned over to embrace a blond doll on a nearby balcony. She waves two pink little hands at the sky refusing to be ravished. But the minaret and the balcony lean like the tower of Pisa you hear only whispers, it isn't the leaves or the water "Allah! Allah!" or the breeze, a strange prayer. A cock crowed, he must be blond— ioy O soul in love that has soared to the heights! There, you see, at last I love these mountains hunched up like this, the ancient flock about me with these wrinkles. Has anyone thought of telling a mountain's fortune as you read the palm of a hand? Has anyone thought of it? . . . O that insistent thought shut up in an empty box, willfully beating the cardboard without a pause all night long like a mouse gnawing the floor. The monotony is broken, O you who've soared to the heights, there, you see, I love even that buffalo on the Macedonian plain, so patient, so unhurried, as if knowing that no one gets anywhere, recalling the arrogant head of the warlike Vercingetorix* Tel qu'en lui-meme enfin I'eterniti Ie change* Koritsa, 1937 108 ...


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