In my motherland people kneel before wells.

In my motherland people pray to the crosses of flying birds.

A bone is a key to my people.

Among my people, only the dead have human faces.

- Valzhyna Mort
…The trilling wire in the blood / Sings below inveterate scars…
T.S. Eliot, from The Complete Poems & Plays; “Burnt Norton,
(via malisoun)
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