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The SoulAdam Zagajewski

We know we’re not allowed to use your name.
We know you’re inexpressible
anemic, frail, and suspect,
for mysterious offenses as a child.
We know that you are not allowed to live now
in music or in trees at sunset.
We know – or at least we’ve been told –
that you do not exist at all, anywhere.
And yet we keep hearing your weary voice
– in an echo, a complaint, in the letters we receive
from Antigone in the Greek desert.