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The Violin of the Bushman

The Violin of the Bushman Weak is resonance of the sound a one stringed bent stick on an empty ostrich egg.  Not an instrument for greater glory of whoever. Nobody
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Chairs

Chairs For a long time I sat between chairs till I was tired of It That day I decided to put another chair between the chairs For one
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Those Bloody Years

Those bloody years I could sing to you about distant lands, about attractive anecdotes, about miracles, about multicolored birds, about the squirrels which ate out of my hand
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This Bedroom

This bedroom I love this bedroom with a single door and dimmed lights at my side. A small bathroom not far from the bed and a lot of
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Window

      Window III                                                                    Chile You, little troubadour, who opens the mornings, tell me: When the cherry tree dies, will you return at dawn and sing
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At night I write

        At night I write from the bed and plunder the fruits of darkness to exchange them for coins made of words. While herding words
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In the Waves

In the waves The sea so green and so open I have my feet in the water I see fishes in the waves the summer the summer arrived
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What it is

What It Is It is nonsense says reason It is what it is says love It is misfortune says calculation It is only pain says fear It is
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The Rose of Writing

The rose of writing to Tulio Mora To court her, to transplant her, poets, to the white sheet, to caress her thorn, till it bleeds aroma and colours
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