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I Know You Walk--

 I walk so often, late, along the streets,
Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread,
Suddenly, silently, you still might rise
And I would have to gaze on all your grief
With my own eyes,
While you demand your happiness, that's dead.
I know, you walk beyond me, every night, With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress And walk for money, looking miserable! Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess, The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight--- You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.

by Hermann Hesse
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