Or: all dolls come
from the land of the unborn,
the almost-born; each
doll is a future
dead at the roots,
a voice heard only
on breathless nights,
a desolate white memento.
Or: these are the lost children,
those who have died or thickened
to full growth and gone away.
The dolls are their souls or cast skins,
which line the shelves of our bedrooms
and museums, disguised as outmoded toys,
images of our sorrow,
shedding around themselves
five inches of limbo.
*Quinto poema dos "five poems for dolls", de Margaret Atwood.
*Escultura de Hans Bellmer.
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