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Carts full of hay
abandoned the town
in greatest quiet.

Cautious glances from the curtains.

A morning empty as a waiting room.

The rustling of papers in the archives;
men calculate the losses.

But that world.
Suitcases packed.
Sing for it, oriole,
dance for it, little fox,
catch it.

—Translated by Clare Cavanagh 

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