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160 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1991
A very old suffering makes our breath pitiful. The poet is one who risks words. The poet sets them down in order to breathe. This does not make the nights easier.
To name the wound, to give a name again to the face voided by flame, to tell, to make and remake the borders of silence, that is what the poet's conscience dictates. The poet must consider the powerlessness of language in the face of history's extreme brutality, in the face of the suffering of those who have nothing left, not even a reason to survive and forget.