XVII.

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The drowsiness of a thunder—a mere tinkle
nuzzles into the scent of coconut upon my neck.
I observe a torrent coming;
amidst the mist of its droplets
plummet the subtleties of your mouth,
and so I peel a clementine.


By the elegiac shades of the trees,
the flesh of plums spills on God's palms
as He kindles your motherland.
This is the death of spring,
I undress;


I shall make myself a new dress
out of the embers of prayers
that your mother utters
upon seeing what you caused,
how you awakened God's wrath.


My clementine is bittersweet—
I surrender my silken dress,
the one that made your mouth quake,
to the flames.
No birdsong, no cry of woe
but a mere rebirth.

No birdsong, no cry of woebut a mere rebirth

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THE END



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