A Process in the Weather of the Heart by Dylan Thomas

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A process in the weather of the heart / Turns damp to dry; the golden shot / Storms in the freezing tomb.

A weather in the quarter of the veins

Turns night to day; blood in their suns / Lights up the living worm.

A process in the eye forewarns / The bones of blindness; and the womb / Drives in a death as life leaks out.

A darkness in the weather of the eye / Is half its light; the fathomed sea / Breaks on unangled land.

The seed that makes a forest of the loin / Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,

Slow in a sleeping wind.

A weather in the flesh and bone / Is damp and dry; the quick and dead / Move like two ghosts before the eye.

A process in the weather of the world

Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child / Sits in their double shade.

A process blows the moon into the sun, / Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin; / And the heart gives up its dead.

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