125 To Constance There are the apple-trees that never blossom In hasty moments when they ought to bloom. They don't forget the insults of the autumn; They never heal the winter in the wounds -- No cure For the convulsions of the branches, No treatment For the trembling of the leaves, No language To translate the frightened rustle -- The sibilants that hiss at open speech. Their bodies have become for them like ovens. The tender hands don't reach them through the bark -- Don't pick up ripened apples in the summer, And don't put apples in the hungry mouth.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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