The people's conscience squats
on a worm-eaten pole.
Around the pole dance the bones of three children.
From the young mother's belly it ruptures forth: ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
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