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The house where I was born (02)

Written by: Yves Bonnefoy | Biography
  I woke up, it was the house where I was born.
It was raining softly in all the rooms, I went from one to another, looking at The water that shone on the mirrors Piled up everywhere, some broken or even Pushed between the furniture and the walls.
It was from these reflections that sometimes a face Would emerge, laughing, of a gentleness That was different from what the world is.
And, with a hesitant hand, I touched in the image The tossled hair of the goddess, Beneath the veil of the water I could see the sad, distracted face of a little girl.
Bewilderment between being and not being, Hand that is reluctant to touch the mist, Then I listened as the laughter faded away In the halls of the empty house.
Here nothing but forever the gift of the dream, The outstretched hand that does not cross The fast flowing water where memories vanish.



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