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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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She crossed the sea climbing hill after hill
The land made her blister Only the interiour sun was faithfully searing her sores She used to eat fallen apples like a manicheist Empty like desert shaggy like a black goat She found a solitude a place where there is no need for miracles To invirginate a mother She lived in that forest for the rest of her life With her beauty dressed in sackcloth and known by no one Except from a flock of nightingales who told me about her They told she was wearing her shirt still low-cut On her breast as hard as the wax of certainties That her skirt was still red with questioning pleats That she was combing long as a Berenice of the hairdressers In winter she was getting warm in the rough clothes of her old loves Drowned in the luxurious merrymaking image Never pure – a happiness of vice clean and fresh Murmuring unwrinkled melodies As a queen of waters turning into sand In summer she was wearing only her wavy hair Bound at her waist with an anorectic scourge Strange version of an insignificant nakedness With a sharp smell of holiness Of crude skin tanned in the fear of the animals She used to lose her breath in a mirror leaned against the rock Caressing the skull of a stag remembering how she used to anoint his hooves How she wiped them with her bushy locks With the same trawl she caught all the others The nightingales hushed in the nooks When she was aiming at the core of the absent blue flame They knew she started a strong relationship with the candle
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