Gerrit Achterberg

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It is the same December
as your death.
You don't remember...
Once again that street
at both ends is
shrouded in mist;
no one else passes
by, that his face
might prevent
this wickedness:
calamity has got
hold of my fate.
Rigidly I stand.
O door, ordained
for arrival and turn
in love's blind
pair of arms,
I enter you
as a thief
in the houses of strangers,
opens its floodgates
upon my ascent.
I am hissing,
blood out, blood in.
The old darkness
will have that I listen
to its secret
known to the festival
night of sleep.
the whispering...
but it cannot be:
I am beneath
the lowest watermark
of sense and reason,
I am beneath
my reason for being,
step for step
within me grows
a hammer, hammer.
Is this your room?
This is December,
the one of your death.
You don't remember...

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