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Poem	Here is the city— its worn-down mountains, its grass and iron, its smoky coast seen from the high roads on the Wicklow side. From Dalkey Island to the North Wall, to the blue distance seizing its perimeter, its old divisions are deep within it. And in me also. And always will be. Out of my mouth they come: The spurred and booted garrisons. The men and women they dispossessed. What is a colony if not the brutal truth that when we speak the graves open. And the dead walk?
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