Quote: 'For months my hand had been sealed off in a tin box'- A.Sexton
For years my hand is sealed off.
Only the thin underground veins grow always closer to the surface.
Sometimes they feel like a blood-clot in the fingers
Where nothing flows except pain.
You whisper:
This is the hand of our little solitudes. Nothing more.
The desert of our solitude.
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from www.trilogyofthemirrors.com
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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