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I study here http://txxx.in.net/ txxx porno I watched with fascination as Seamus dug into the Irish soil, as a poet, finding in the bog a perfect simulacrum of his own art. “Bogland” is one of the finest of these, a poem about the endless layers of Irish history gathered in a bog, in a poem, in the word itself – almost any word, which is a palimpsest, a story of erasures that underlie the current writing. “Our unfenced country/ Is bog that keeps crusting/ Between the sights of the sun,” he wrote in that poem – a meditation on the complications of Irish history, where every layer “seems camped on before”, and a visualisation of his art, which involved “striking /Inwards and downwards”.
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