In nineteen hundred, Mahler said
to Sibelius that
a symphony must be like
the world, it must contain everything.
The world inside,
for him, for Alma, for the house,
became haunted by the silence of
a daughter gone, cursed.
That world is feared by all parents,
and known too well
to those who go to a dark land, to an oubliette,
to nowhere, to
to nowhere, to an
If the world is made of songs
of the deaths of our children,
is it the world
we hope for?
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