"no poem springs from a wasted land" is an intimate object that weaves various times (between pasts and futures) of a fluid present. After all, from where do we imagine what we (do not) see? Here and now will always be a shaky ground of uncertainty. When a poem ceases to be babbled, where do its words shipwreck? When a country wastes a starry night, what do we have left? Before, the words sprang up in dew, inside the hut, where they waited for your hand. Come!

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