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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-10-27 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu romana] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di Ionescu Bogdan
(To J.S.)
Still life, still life…the high-lights shine Hard and sharp on the bottles: the wine Stands firmly solid in the glasses, Smooth yellow ice, through which there passes The lamp's bright pencil of down-struck light. The fruits metallically gleam, Globey in their heaped-up bowl, And there are faces against the night Of the outer room - faces that seem Part of this still, still life…they've lost their soul. And amongst these frozen faces you smiled, Surprised, surprisingly, like a child: And out of the frozen welter of sound Your voice came quietly, quietly. "What about God?" you said. "I have found Much to be said for Totality. All, I take it, is God: God's all - This bottle, for instance…" I recall, Dimly, that you took God by the neck - God-in-the-bottle - and pushed Him across: But I, without a moment's loss Moved God-in-the-salt in front and shouted: "Check!"
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