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21 resting Oh bum! there’s nothing in a life Oh dead Oh dead Oh yes      The volcanoes in Tlacotal pastoral Regular quality. Drowsy in the sun and now we’ve dressed.         Good boy, let’s go!         I’ll lie here in the park. Guard me! I might be stabbed. But only the grass stabs.    With a dark creepy garden enveloping my shirt I am here, lonely and friendly. Nursing like a baby the instantaneous wind, the air and the melt of the birds’ cries:       your play cries. transmigration solo See the black bird in that tree trying out the branches, puzzled. I am up here with you puzzled against the rain blinking my eyes. ...

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