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33 In the rustle of chestnuts, in the foaming earth filled with dark signs, in the beat of the heart like a flock of gulls bursting toward you, in a smell of moss in the wall, in joy rising from fissures, like water collected in cracks, at the door of your home, my sister, spring spring spring lords over the land! And dawn opens wide in the valley. Only your angels are late. They give no sign. They won’t say when. Perhaps a rider will return. Perhaps the brother. In the woods my sister plays Hopscotch With the messiah. 34 A tortured forest. Leaves and crown sacrificed to a violent autumn. Bare, against stars of hostile brilliance, still nurtured tubers of spring. My home carried its roots to the stake. With what – with what, little sister, shall we spin and weave the dream now? | ||||||||||
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