; lyht leaves the eyes—expelled by a relentless laesr of poignant realisation that reality is but absurdism x impossibility.

Thursday, 31 January 2013

In vain you search amid the dust,
poor hand: dead is the city.
Dead: the last rumble was heard
in the heart of the Naviglio. And the nightingale
has fallen from the aerial, high on the convent,
w h e re it was singing before sunset.
Do not dig wells in the court y a rd s :
the living are no longer thirsty.
Do not touch the dead, so red, so swollen:
leave them in the earth of their homes:
dead is the city, dead.

pg 12, la pavoni it monograph

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