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in this issue
Patrick Gifreu
The End of the Film
Silence, impassiveness, myth.
That's what they serve you, with ice,
The afflicted streets and the deserted suburbs,
Meticulous gesture, hieratic silhouettes,
Imperial solitude.
Some one has emptied the city.
Has wiped out the characters,
Has kept the appearance
By imposing a mask.
There is no more love or simulacrum.
Nothing, except imminent death
And the derisory beauty of ghosts
Which refuse to relinquish their prestige.
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