Una volta che quando ho visto un cripple gasping lentamente i suoi ultimi giorni con la peste bianca, osservando da vuoto occhio, denominando per aria, disperatamente gesturing con le mani sprecate in oscurit e polvere di una casa gi a slum, ho detto a me che piuttosto sarei stato un girasole alto che vivo in un giardino del paese che alza una faccia dorato-marrone all'estate, Pioggia-lavato e rugiada-dew-misted, mescolata con i papaveri ed i hollyhocks di posto e la notte wonderingly guardante dopo la notte i processionals silenziosi liberi delle stelle.
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