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23 tHE rooM WitH tHE BAy WindoW The hectic of the day i flee, just like an ostrich, not to see. inside the old, old house i hide; my gaze no longer strays outside through leaden windows open wide. our parents sowed simplicity and harvested a lucky fruit; i sit and dream for hours mute upon the round chair cosily amidst the cushioned heirlooms free. noVEMBEr dAy cold autumn may benumb the day and silence thousand exultations. High from the cathedral tower sad bells sigh in mists of mourning this november day. A luminescent haze rests drowsily on dampened roofs, while winds of storm with clammy hands a requiem perform within the chimney walls in sombre key. ...

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