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MEMORY I And there was no more sea* And I with only a reed in my hands. The night was deserted, the moon waning, earth smelled of the last rain. I whispered: memory hurts wherever you touch it, there's only a little sky, there's no more sea, what they kill by day they carry away in carts and dump behind the ridge. I was fingering this pipe absent-mindedly; an old shepherd gave it to me because I said good-evening to him. The others have abolished every kind of greeting: they wake, shave, and start the day's work of slaughter as one prunes or operates, methodically and without passion; sorrow's dead like Patroclus, and no one makes a mistake. I thought of playing a tune and then I felt ashamed in front of the other world the one that watches me from beyond the night from within my light woven of living bodies, naked hearts and love that belongs to the Furies as it belongs to man and to stone and to water and to grass 189 and to the animal that looks straight into the eye of its approaching death. So I continued along the dark path and turned into my garden and dug and buried the reed and again I whispered: some morning the resurrection will come, dawn's light will blossom red as trees glow in spring, the sea will be born again, and the wave will again fling forth Aphrodite. We are the seed that dies. And I entered my empty house. 190 ...


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