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{ Sunday, December 19, 2004 }

The Wind Suffers

The wind suffers of blowing, The sea suffers of water, And fire suffers of burning, And I of a living name.

As stone suffers of stoniness,
As light of its shiningness,
As birds of their wingedness,
So I of my whoness.

And what the cure of all this?
What the not and not suffering?
What the better and later of this?
What the more me of me?

How for the pain-world to be
More world and no pain?
How for the old rain to fall
More wet and more dry?

How for the willful blood to run
More salt-red and sweet-white?
And how for me in my actualness
To more shriek and more smile?

By no other miracles,
By the same knowing poison,
By an improved anguish,
By my further dying.

--Laura Riding

(viaxvarenah).

LINK | 2:20 PM | TB

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END ARCHIVE--> . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .