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 Schizophrenic, wrenched by two styles,
one a hack's hired prose, I earn
me exile.
I trudge this sickle, moonlit beach for miles, tan, burn to slough off this live of ocean that's self-love.
To change your language you must change your life.
I cannot right old wrongs.
Waves tire of horizon and return.
Gulls screech with rusty tongues Above the beached, rotting pirogues, they were a venomous beaked cloud at Charlotteville.
One I thought love of country was enough, now, even if I chose, there is no room at the trough.
I watch the best minds rot like dogs for scraps of flavour.
I am nearing middle age, burnt skin peels from my hand like paper, onion-thin, like Peer Gynt's riddle.
At heart there is nothing, not the dread of death.
I know to many dead.
They're all familiar, all in character, even how they died.
On fire, the flesh no longer fears that furnace mouth of earth, that kiln or ashpit of the sun, nor this clouding, unclouding sickle moon withering this beach again like a blank page.
All its indifference is a different rage.

Poem by Derek Walcott
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