Saturday, November 20, 2010

The Truth Is Not Sad, But There Is No Remedy*

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Circe 427

run, you bending light
dissappear before the hurrying fire
moments you miss and this glow
overcomes the knowing searching
the light that presses the whole cold thing
upright and flashes its burning side.
you, slaughterer of sheep
as if your breath were taken
as if you
could cross a cold street
imperfectly holding us safe against your warmth
if we reappear suddenly
it is because someone holds
open a shutter
and we are stitched back into
the picture moments
before you open the bright door
and let us in.

*Joan Manuel Serrat

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