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Poem	In the evening all the hours that weren't used are emptied out and the beggars are waiting to gather them up to open them to find the sun in each one and teach it its beggar's name and sing to it It is well through the night but each of us has his own kingdom of pains and has not yet found them all and is sailing in search of them day and night infallible undisputed unresting filled with a dumb use and its time like a finger in a world without hands
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