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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-07-27 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
in Darwin they call it the build-up, sleeping in the donga,
alone, except for the cottony gecko scat scattered through my sheets flutes of hollowed bamboo breathe a peculiar music, and confusions of trills in the wet dark are droplets, brackish or fresh, the weird birds unknowable, unimaginable, they sound like mad ventriloquests throwing the voices of fake felt macaws into the steamy corners of the night the dark leans against the mosquito wire walls and I know straightaway I was born to scuff this stone underfoot; the night air moving over me my bare arms above the sheets or lying on my stomach my hands cradling the pillow the sounds of the night birds oh! a wild baby pig grunting pacing the dirt with its tiny hooves outside the door in the early hours I let the night in between my legs I let the night...................let the night and arch at the wild unseen moving........moving......my throat arrested I cry out like one of those strange unnameable birds back in Hobart three degrees and winding over the saddle through the snow listening to a didgeridoo, displaced; and I tell him, It was thirty-three when I left. Home, and a boobook owl pops the night with its questions: pop (silence) .............pop (silence) .............................pop
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