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Seven Strophes

I was but what you'd brush
with your palm what your leaning
brow would hunch to in evening's
raven-black hush.
I was but what your gaze in that dark could distinguish: a dim shape to begin with later - features a face.
It was you on my right on my left with your heated sighs who molded my helix whispering at my side.
It was you by that black window's trembling tulle pattern who laid in my raw cavern a voice calling you back.
I was practically blind.
You appearing then hiding gave me my sight and heightened it.
Thus some leave behind a trace.
Thus they make worlds.
Thus having done so at random wastefully they abandon their work to its whirls.
Thus prey to speeds of light heat cold or darkness a sphere in space without markers spins and spins.

Poem by Joseph Brodsky
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