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1 " October"I remember how I would say, “I will gatherThese pieces together,Any minute now I will makeA knife out of a cloud.”Even then the daysWent leaving their wounds behind them,But, “Monument,” I kept saying to the grave,“I am still your legend.”There was another timeWhen our hands met and the clocks struckAnd we lived on the point of a needle, like angels.I have seen the spider’s triumphIn the palm of my hand. AboveMy grave, that thoroughfare,There are words now that can bringMy eyes to my feet, tamed.Beyond the trees wearing names that are not their ownThe paths are growing like smoke.The promises have gone,Gone, gone, and they were here just now.There is the sky where they laid their fish.Soon it will be evening. "
― W.S. Merwin , The Moving Target
2 " Invocation”The day hanging by its feet with a holeIn its voiceAnd the light running into the sandHere I am once again with my dry mouthAt the fountain of thistlesPreparing to sing. "
3 " Air"Naturally it is night.Under the overturned lute with itsOne string I am going my wayWhich has a strange sound.This way the dust, that way the dust.I listen to both sidesBut I keep right on.I remember the leaves sitting in judgmentAnd then winter.I remember the rain with its bundle of roads.The rain taking all its roads.Nowhere.Young as I am, old as I am,I forget tomorrow, the blind man.I forget the life among the buried windows.The eyes in the curtains.The wallGrowing through the immortelles.I forget silenceThe owner of the smile.This must be what I wanted to be doing,Walking at night between the two deserts,Singing. "