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Belfast Tune

Here's a girl from a dangerous town
She crops her dark hair short
so that less of her has to frown
when someine gets hurt.
She folds her memories like a parachute.
Dropped she collects the peat and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot here where they eat.
Ah there's more sky in these parts than say ground.
Hence her voice's pitch and her stare stains your retina like a gray bulb when you switch hemispheres and her knee-length quilt skirt's cut to catch the squal I dream of her either loved or killed because the town's too small.

by Joseph Brodsky
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