Along with your ashes, the barely
written ones, obliterating
the ode, the incited roots, the alien
eye - with imbecilic hands, they dragged you
into the city, bound you in
this knot of slang, and gave you
nothing. Your ink has learned
the violence of the wall. Banished,
but always to the heart
of brothering quiet, you cant the stones
of unseen earth, and smooth your place
among the wolves. Each syllable
is the work of sabotage.
...
Paul Auster
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