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A flame is in my blood

 A flame is in my blood
burning dry life, to the bone.
I do not sing of stone, now, I sing of wood.
It is light and coarse: made of a single spar, the oak’s deep heart, and the fisherman’s oar.
Drive them deep, the piles: hammer them in tight, around wooden Paradise, where everything is light.

Poem by Osip Mandelstam
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