Where can the shadow enter?

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I ask now, standing with my scissors among my flowers, Where can the shadow enter?

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To read this poem one must have myriad eyes…

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I have sliced the waters of beauty in the evening when the hills close themselves like birds’ wings folded.

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Your voices sound like trees creaking in the forest. So with your faces and their prominences and hollows.

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‘I am still vigorous,’ they are saying, ‘My face shall be cut against the black infinite space.’ They do not finish their sentences. ‘It is time,’ they keep saying. ‘The gardens will be shut.’

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-VIRGINIA WOOLF, The Waves