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02:18 

A Process in the Weather of the Heart

hwyl fawr
Я будто бы шлепаю босыми ногами в прибое, как маленький Дилан Томас когда-то, и над головой простерлось застиранное небо.

Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glowworms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.

A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.

Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.

Night in the sockets rounds,
Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;
Day lights the bone;
Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin
The winter's robes;
The film of spring is hanging from the lids.

Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics die,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.

03:18 

hwyl fawr
They came to tell your faults to me,

They named them over one by one;

I laughed aloud when they were done,

I knew them all so well before,

Oh, they were blind, too blind to see

Your faults had made me love you more.


by Sarah Teasdale

13:35 

hwyl fawr

on wide shoulders

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