She was in herself, like a woman near term,
full of her vast death that was so new
she understood nothing.
She was in a new virginity,
untouchable.
No longer the blonde
in the poet's songs
no longer the bed's scent and island,
nor his possession.
She was already loosened like long hair,
dispensed like fallen rain...
She was already root.
And when suddenly the guide stopped her
and in anguish cried: ‘He has turned round!’ -
she understood nothing and said softly: ‘who?’
(after Rilke)
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