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there is the same high ardor
of rhetorical sunsets in sicily as over martinique,
and the same horizon underlines their bright absence,
the long-loved shining there who, perhaps, do not speak
from unutterable delight, since speech is for mortals,
since at the end of each sentence there is a grave
of the sky’s blue door or once, the widening portals
of our disenfranchised sublime.

from derek walcott’s 34: at the end of this line there is an opening door

shelly shan

hi, my name is shelly. I do a thing where I make words into unnecessarily emotional composites. I don't know why I'm allowed on the internet, but I like it here.