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Like a windjammer running before the trades, I leave behind the headlands of good life. The drums have forced my measured step, where the free sound of words is not allowed. Don't call to me, my darling, it is work within a city's bleeding frame of steel. The watchman stands before the gate, and only beetles' voices are admitted. How shall I flee when others stoke the kilns and swing on ropes into the hells of heat? How shall I stay when others pair for life, and we are paired in separated lands? Will this high wall withstand the tug of hands? I close my eyes and fly across the sands.
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