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![]() Poetry ![]() Galatea Thetis Actaeon Knossos Agonistes Penelope Villanelle Other ![]() Contact About |
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![]() ThetisWhy the river called to my young son I do not know; the river is cold, and Will not tell me. Maybe it had grown Weary of the bits of silver it stole From the mountains, black and dull. Perhaps it wanted someone warm To hold against the smooth yellow clay Of its belly, someone to tutor in all it knew. Maybe it was the silence beneath the foaming Skin that lured my child, always so anxious. Eager to rest in its bed, where the sun Had not moved for many cycles of years. M'ijo, que dulce amargura fuiste a tomar alli? He cannot answer, he cannot speak. What was given My son, the river made him promise not to yield. When I put my hands to the elbow; when I pulled my son Up by the heel, we pronounced him invulnerable at last. ![]() |
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