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Wasps and bees both suck the heavy rose.

Man dies, and the hot sand cools again.

Carried off on a black stretcher, yesterday’s sun goes.

Oh, honeycombs’heaviness, nets’ tenderness,

It’s easier to lift a stone than to say your name!

I have one purpose left, a golden purpose,

how, from time’s weight, to free myself again.

I drink the turbid air like a dark water.

The rose was earth; time, ploughed from underneath.

Woven, the heavy, tender roses, in slow vortex,

the roses, heaviness and tenderness, in a double-wreath.

Poem by Osip Mandelshtam, left on my door by my secret friend.

Note: I should perhaps tell you now that s/he has now left me three poems and about five gifts. There was the photo frame, then the class notebook, candy, then some pink scented beans (which first worried me because it felt like a feminine gift 🙁 :D), and a bottle of peach scented candles. Now I’m totally confused, not necessarily in a bad way. The game ends tomorrow when I should discover who my Amigo Secreto is, and finally make myself known to my own subject. It should be fun. It is taking place at a dinner somewhere in town, organized by the department of foreign languages.

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