My sweetheart washed flowers
with wood and with stones,
she danced a larger step
downstairs.
Baked her clothes
from dough, in ovens,
crept in my fingers
as in the stacks of the past.
Oh, were she as quiet
as the engravings of walls
are with the mortar at home.
But she begs for soap
and for washing and neighbours
and a film on the goggle-box.
...
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