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I recognize this voice wherever it sprouts,
whether it screams with a vowel,
or moans with a consonant.
It is positively unbearable.
It echoes so much
that all the lines on my skin
move angrily and rapidly.

Therefore, the voice.
The stones
usually roll down the hills.
The floods and thunderstorms traditionally appear out of nowhere.
And I come up against the moldy walls of those fables of old:
where does it come from,
where does this light seep from,

and how did this bird come to live
in the pained dumb meat,
in the funny veined puppet,
of which there are many samples.
The river eats up the boats, like yummy candy,
and one dies for as long
as she hears this voice,
this voice.

translated by oksana maksymchuk

the original poem

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