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From Ville Harrel Britany, 1993. (2011)

Plaster cob walls,with beautiful blistered hands,In a cloud of lace.Her hands bled and stung by cement.scrape on steel strings pink flesh upon the chords,which offer up lament. The air smells of diesel,the clubs turn.the puppets skip upon the strings. The chalk is a blur on the pavement, And the minstrels never ceased to sing.



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