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I hold your love up as a lantern. The blackness of night
hurts my eyes. The windows of the tower are locked
against my heart.
The lovers’ caravans are leaving. My black tents
remain, though the well’s dry, the valleys
never turn green this year,
and the desert was not a witness of our wedding.
At dawn, the cooing of pigeons is a torment,
the face of wind dusty,
talking me by surprise, and snatching away
a memory that began to wake.
I carry her, my beloved, in my heart
where she moans, wounded . . .
And the clover flower complains . . . Nobody
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