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The hand in the word,
the hand amidst
what they were calling God,
the hand in the measure,
in the cincture of the soul.
One has to alarm the idiom
boxes,
startle till they fly
like seagulls vowels,
one has to knead
mud
till it sings,
soil it with tears,
lave it with blood,
stain it with violets
till breaks the river,
the whole river,
from a bit of crockery:
that's song:
the word
of the river.
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