Erminia's evening post :
A possibility exists
That, if once peotry wounded
Those who write or read it, it will never
Leave them alone in the way a
Half modulated and half betrayed refrain
Would torments their memory. And I, who write,
I know that an alien sense
Can emulate the identical.
I know that here, in my verse,
The word that you hear or read rests still,
Then at once it flies away
Where you no longer are, down there
Where you never hoped to get, down there,
Where other mountains start, and other anxious valleys, rivers
Similar to those that you saw while traveling
On trembling airplanes.
Impetuous cities, under your motionless
Written words.
(erminia; secretive)
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