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Knowing you I feel only
that the stubble on my chin
will keep growing like those
endless subaltern dreams.
Wishes are, are not dreams.
The child next door grins
with his dirty face. Smudges. Let my stubble grow into a beard of
delight, passions. A beard that measures time in between tiny fingers.
A beard turning grey, white. Knowing you I know you will not listen to dreams. They cannot happen. We must improve
our condition, not others’.

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