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The Final Poem

 A forge burns in my heart.
I am redder than dawn, Deeper than seaweed, More distant than gulls, More hollow than wells.
But I only give birth To seeds and to shells.
My tongue becomes tangled in words: I no longer speak white, Nor utter black, Nor whisper gray of a wind-worn cliff, Barely do I glimpse a swallow, A shadow's brief glimmer, Or guess at an iris.
Where are the words, The undying fire, The final poem? The source of life?

by Andree Chedid
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