Margaret Atwood

Foretelling the Future

It doesn't matter how it is done, these hints, these whispers: whether it is some god blowing through your head as through a round bone flute, or bright stones fallen on the sand or a charlatan, stringing you a line with bird gut, or smoke, or the taut hair of a dead girl singing. It doesn't matter what is said but you can feel those crystal hands, stroking the air around your body till the air glows white and you are like the moon seen from the earth, oval and gentle and filled with light. The moon seen from the moon is a different thing.

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