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Old men and boys search the wet garbage with fingers
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A White curtain turning in an open window
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Our nightingale, the clock
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The Imperious dawn comes
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All night the wind blew
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Both daughters had married well
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For an Inscription over the Entrance to a Subway Station
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My hair was caught in the wheels of a clock
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You think yourself a woman
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How shall we mourn you who are killed and wasted
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