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 He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.
The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him, Smoke pluming their foreheads.
Boor, bond of the herd, Tonight stretch full by the fire! I bleed by the black stream For my torn bough!

Poem by James Joyce
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