BYRLMBLYDGBYDG:

Mourning

With all due respect, sir Gilbert, all you said of the heart
was that it is as helpless as crushed birds, it lies to itself
because it must, it is a foreign country, like language too is a lie.
You wrote to us about the heart: it one day stops, going so far
as to show us how it does, how it does, what has it done. All heart,
without you, I stop where you left off, the abandoned valley,
the white streets of Greece, or Rome, or the wonderful room
where you watched someone die, I survey the words and agree,
maybe none are enough, none of them will do, but you, sir, are not me.

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