36 My leaves are rustling when your boughs Are wrestling with the stifling breath of wrecked And frantic height that breaks and bows Your roots aroused -- but still you stay erect. My leaves are trembling when your boughs Are down with fog arising in my green And thirsty veins to blind my open mouth When slowing down my tongue upon your skin. My leaves are dying when your boughs Have torn my veins from yours to stay alone Between the height and fog, to sound Apart on the tribunal of the Fall.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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