SENTIMENTAL STORY |
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Then we met more often. I stood at one side of the hour, you at the other, like two handles of an amphora. Only the words flew between us, back and forth. You could almost see their swirling, and suddenly, I would lower a knee, and touch my elbow to the ground to look at the grass, bent by the falling of some word, as though by the paw of a lion in flight. The words spun between us, back and forth, and the more I love you, the more they continued, this whirl almost seen, the structure of matter, the beginnings of things. |
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A POEM Tell me, if I caught you one
day
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So what if Primăvara comes? |
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From their sleep of darkest night |
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Soft light, lights soft |
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Purveyor of our
light, and lamp, |
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There used to be twenty
generations within me. |
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I happen to cry out, |
My blood |
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