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There sits grandmother: a young girl is she,
her fragile slender face
poised on her haughty neck: how still she gazes at
the hidden eye which in the darkness stares at her
out of an abyss: if she deigned
to turn her eyes upon the bearded sadness of
her smiling father, she would rise.
But she just keeps her seat, so still.

Soon she will stand anew. The day
will drag her then along with light up to the porch
while the whole street vibrates with cosmic shock
of hoof and hoof. Now is she lost at last. When next I see her, she'll be old.

But in the meantime, quiet, still,
she keeps on gazing at the dark deep well, her fragile, slender face
poised on her haughty neck. How young she is.
She's simply sitting there, that's all,  you see.


Eliseo Diego
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