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Time is running through me and I am full of crags.
The water hesitates then crashes high from sheer quantity.
No pillar brings about eternity.
The lamb has been stroked by hands that don’t resemble
its awkward skin.
Oh lamb, you drink coffee like all the working class.
For you the sun does not rise in the morning,
rather, like the shadows of the century, it spills
into the evening.