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Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. (Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.) In the groin of the natural doorway1 I crouched2 like a tailor Sewing a shroud3 for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun. Dressed to die, the sensual strut4 begun, With my red veins5 full of money, In the final direction of the elementary town I advance as long as forever is.
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