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In the museum hall
The cramped craniums,
Their label and number
Between empty orbits.

The record, the dossier,
The theory, the hypothesis.

Three molars fished out
From the cave rubble.

Digital in silence,
Between flint chips.

Yet the bonfire
Was merely the meeting,

And between offering and banquet
We devoured the gods
And distributed the tents,

Cain's sons, the black
Race of wolves
Without absolution.

    (Text of the poem in the original Portuguese)

Myriam Fraga

Purifications or the Sign of Retaliation
White Pine Press

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