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“I do not live in you, I bear my house inside me, everywhere until your winters grow more kind by the dancing firelight of mind where knobs of brass do not exist whose doors dissolve in tenderness House that lets in, at last, those fears that are its guests, to sit on chairs feasts on their human faces, and takes pity simply by the hand shows her her room, and feels the hum of wood and brick becoming home.” — Derek Walcott
I do not live in you, I bear
my house inside me, everywhere
until your winters grow more kind
by the dancing firelight of mind
where knobs of brass do not exist
whose doors dissolve in tenderness
House that lets in, at last, those fears
that are its guests, to sit on chairs
feasts on their human faces, and
takes pity simply by the hand
shows her her room, and feels the hum
of wood and brick becoming home.