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The house where I was born (03)

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Written by Yves Bonnefoy

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 I woke up, it was the house where I was born,
It was night, trees were crowding
On all sides around our door,
I was alone on the doorstep in the cold wind,
No, not alone, for two huge beings
Were speaking to each other above me, through me.
One, behind, an old woman, stooped, mean, The other standing upright outside like a lamp, Beautiful, holding the cup that had been offered her, Drinking greedily to calm her thirst.
Did I think to mock her, surely not, Rather I let out a cry of love But with the strangeness of despair, And the poison ran throughout my body, Ceres, mocked, broke the one who loved her.
Thus speaks the life walled up in life today.


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