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Exile
It is raining outside,
It is raining.
The wet leaves are rotting into the earth,
into the sockets of my father’s song,
into the mouth of my mother’s skull
where she smiles for all eternity.
I am clutched by a cold sadness,
by loneliness, by loss.
Where do I belong?
I feel far away.
But far away from where?
It is raining outside;
far away from the wind on the hills
of my dream,
from the pipes and the birds of my song.
My son laughs in a strange language,
a language I understand too well.
Perhaps I should take my life and death
with me,
walk with my wife and my son and two
blankets,
into the rain.
1964
