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Sylvia Plath

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Axes
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echoes!
Echoes travelling
Off from the centre like horses.
--
"Words"

 
Sylvia Plath

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You are axes, in a world of wood. And the wood remembers when it has been cut, even if the axe forgets.

 
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Road poured out into a place of meadows and a few White man’s buildings. Lots of wagons. Horses posted and tied, grazing on the meadow grass. Sounds of metal hammers ringing, chopping of axes in the wood, screech of saws going back and forth, all kinds of White-man forest-killing sounds. A White man’s town.

 
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When you bow deeply to the universe, it bows back; when you call out the name of God, it echoes inside you.

 
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