Twelve Years

 The line
that remained, that
became true: .
 .
 .
 your
house in Paris -- become
the alterpiece of your hands.


Breathed through thrice,
shone through thrice.

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It's turning dumb, turning deaf
behind our eyes.

I see the poison flower
in all manner of words and shapes.


Go.
 Come.

Love blots out its name: to
you it ascribes itself.



Tr.
 Michael Hamburger

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