Our wounds, our torn wounds. Always with the letter on the wall, my feet on the chaff. `That night,' he said, and he raised his eye, `I saw your likeness in the mirror.' The dead moth, motionless.
Night after night a stranger slumbering beneath his tunic:
a fig in the hollow of his hand. A thick cross made from soot above the doorway. Outside in the courtyard a cypress perhaps in full bloom; around
ancient tables eleven men, impatient, talking - they wait for him, break bread, drink wine.
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Years pass; somehow amongst empty rooms I heard birds and leaves on the table, the sound of voice (the easily accomplished truth) and the opportunity passed.