Saturday, November 12, 2005

Under a night like this
it's hard to know what to write.
One of those nights when everything
seems in its place, one
could wonder how, and moreover
why, the word insists, as
if the word, limpid and innocent,
stood out in profile amid such stillness.
As if the world had been liberated
from the world, once and for all, and from pain
all from grief and grief turned
into a feather. Night like bread of God,
bread for kindness, the image
liberated from poverty and wealth.
And man set free from both.
A dream like this, a night with no date.

Eduardo Milán
[New Orleans Review 31:1]

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