After “Portovenere,” by Eugenio Montale
You came to a place
where, like the agave stretching from the cliff-face,
you saw your own small heart
mirrored in a vaster one;
where every doubt that frightened you
could be led along
like a friendly child by the hand.
You were so near the origins
you had taken off your face.
You saw some sea-bird
fly on, under the fixed blue,
without pausing, because on every image is written
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