142 There is an hour, with clocks of the summer melting, With time no more, and things disappearing in light, With air impassable from the heavy fragrance, With all my space condensed in a bird on a bough -- Without an aim are its unexpected movements, Without a sense is its unpredictable poise, Without a meaning falls on the ground its music In ripened apples filled with the sap of its throat. And I forget my reasons and means for being, I do not feel my feet to be down to the earth, I can't explain in sentences why I need you, When pierced throughout my throat by its song with no words.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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