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Poem	Out of three or four in the room One is always standing at the window. Forced to see the injustice amongst the thorns, The fires on the hills. And people who left whole Are brought home in the evening, like small change. Out of three or four in the room One is always standing at the window. Hair dark above his thoughts. Behind him, the words, wandering, without luggage, Hearts without provision, prophecies without water Big stones put there Standing, closed like letters With no addresses; and no one to receive them.
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