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The Wind by Night Oh! the pine tops grind as they collide The wind is moaning from the southern places From the river nearby triumphal voices Of pixies laugh into the gusts Attis Attis Attis barebreasted sexy It is you the pixies ridicule Your trees are falling in the gothic wind Your forest panics like a primitivearmy Whose lances o pine trees tremble in retreat And now and now extincted villages muse Like virgin girls or poets or old men They will never respond no matter what happens Not even when vultures pounce on their pigeons 91 ...

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