You said: death, silence, solitude,
like love, life. Words
of our provisional images.
And the wind rose light each morning
and the season colored with rain and iron
passed over the rocks, over
our mewed-up murmur of the damned.
The truth is distant still.
And tell me, man cleft upon the cross
and you with hands thick with blood,
how shall I answer those that ask?
Now, now: before another wind does rise,
another stillness fills the eyes,
before another rust flourishes.
Salvatore Quasimodo.
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