Instead of burning the book or getting its value
They hid it and were silent, even at home,
So that the history of that lost year
Remained for each one her own delusion.
As the memory faded they had to live.
No one would buy their blood, but they sold
Their hair, the milk from their breasts,
Their signatures on slips of ravelled paper,
The grazing as far as the drawing-room windows
And at last the fresh fine grass
That had started to grow under the first arch
Of the bridge beside the burnt-out paper-mill.