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The holiday people camp in softdrink shade; The white sun dances in the brown tea In the hot cup, in the hot day Where the attenuated birdsong shrills Into untenable heights soprano And the sun splits as the liquid jars As a door slams - Open. Let time suspend the execution of the hour For this one moment here in sunshaft, Here cool wind, beyond our Kafka country, beyond Our torn-wallpaper lives, beyond the city Where the world outruns its cliches, Green verdant and blue ultramarine - I attempt a free translation of birdsong. |
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