I do not live in you, I bearmy house inside me, everywhereuntil your winters grow more kindby the dancing firelight of mindwhere knobs of brass do not existwhose doors dissolve in tendernessHouse that lets in, at last, those fearsthat are its guests, to sit on chairsfeasts on their human faces, andtakes pity simply by the handshows her her room, and feels the humof wood and brick becoming home.
-Derek Walcott
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