First, in the beginning, I wrote poems about me for me. Absolutely. Then something arrived - a man, perhaps? A sliver, a dream? - Something we do not bring anything, but took everything. So stop writing comoantes - comoestabaacostumbradaa , do not leave itself: was lost. My words hurt me, they are wound. My tongue has been hooked on the electrified barbed wire of Auschwitz and every time I carried out the action of the poem itself, shake and spit blood.
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