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From March 1979
Weary of all who come with words, words but no language
I make my way to the snow-covered island.
The untamed has no words.
The unwritten pages spread out on every side!
I come upon the tracks of deer in the snow.
Language but no words.
Thomas Transtromer
It's something to think about. How much of our talk really says anything? How many of our conversations, writings, books - poetry even, is meaningful? Is it only when we're stripped down to life and death essentials that we actually speak?
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