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Marching I don't write a poem, I try To find a word for my blood That cries in my body, For two clodhoppers—my shoes65 That stand near my bed, Ready—nothing to lose— To walk out in the street To bring hunger back here And more: To bring back A marching of worn-out shoes. I know the sadness of walking barefoot From my street And my own home, Recognize every footfall: Lithuanian bast shoes,66 from my home, With their water weed smell, Leather boots that, I know very well, More than once strode together from street to street And brought back Denials And hunger And the stumbling of feet. Then it's me that the marching walks over, And upon white pieces of paper67 Writes its dark stroke. Eyes closed, I hear: it ensues, The marching of worn-out shoes. 227 •B»3 pK OK: p y y x B»l 15TD5niD DJWU pK yfcKE H ,B"3P n!iB . o n nos p>w H lyn^K pT 1 pK OK: pya^x ow i n^Djnio nyxni .pK^IKB D1X p^S JT^K jDKp K 1 ;DDKJ pK ^KD f t ,pyn isiKtr; D ^ •Bw a pK OK: pya^K B": njrByno nyri: ,083 B«T3 TK •B^3 aiB-Dr f*p rx nos ]IK 228 ...

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