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50 This Summer This summer we do not hike with mules across the Spanish hill country, do not sit in the hot shade of the Alhambra. This summer we are not racing motorcycles nor, certainly not, picnicking by the sea, bottles of wine buried like monuments of empire. This summer the flowers do not scream, the sun is a lovely hovering butcher, and clocks and locusts, these remain strangely still. ...

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