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BOOK III: THE CRY OF MERLIN
by Paul Pines

NERUDA’S voice
rises from the page
grieving for

        
            LORCA, ALBERTI and MAYAKOVSKY

likens them
to a river, a mountain and a crystal,
and himself
                 to a valley
with subterranean waters
pooling at its heart.
It is night.
I ride through the dark
on a bus
past little boxes
of light,
           in awe
of this solitude
           I call
          mylife.

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