Poem in 1944  4475

Locations in Harold's Library

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            [0] => No, I cannot write the poem of the war, / Neither the colossal dying nor the local scene, / A platoon asleep and dreaming of girls' warmth / Or by the petrol-cooker scraping out a laughter. / —Only the images that are not even nightmare: / A globe encrusted with a skin or seaweed, / Or razors at the roots. The heart is no man's prism|c
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