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| Ah I, for one, am not metaphysical I am not in the habit of sticking my fingers Into the jars of an eternity as mauve and dirty As a bar in a small provincial town And what do I care if in future centuries they discard My soul like a small unimportant Thing such as in the hottest part of summer The shell of a beetle in the dust I give unsparingly and even when I sleep There is this flame in me that puts in the wrong Everything except this stern rise Toward the admirable uneven face of the earth I stick into my life a hand of couch grass And it is too much happiness when once in a while When time comes to take action I draw from it the seed Which year after year prolongs my patience Ah you would see skies and horses fade O my heart without anything seeming new to you Even if we are fated to die in our prime Just for laying our forehead against a blouse Even that of a mother we truly deserve To believe in life more than in eternity.
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