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Funeral Rites
par
Seamus Heaney
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I I shouldered a kind of manhood stepping in to lift the coffins of dead relations. They had been laid out in tainted rooms, their eyelids glistening, their dough-white hands shackled in rosary beads. Their puffed knuckles had unwrinkled, the nails were darkened, the wrists obediently sloped. The dulse-brown shroud, the quilted satin cribs: I knelt courteously admiting it all as wax melted down and veined the candles, the flames hovering to the women hovering behind me. And always, in a corner, the coffin lid, its nail-heads dressed
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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