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Some frightened blush

What mysterious does the crab contain?
How little we relax and how much it relaxes the secrets of the universe
against the worn-out thicket of morose guitar,
pockets of broken glass converted into cork
The loving pasture gave it purity.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry
trust of juices and poppies
and the fleeting stars in the sky
of his native land?

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