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O, donkey, how you bray! Did you swallow a blustery cloud and are the patter of your hooves the pebbles in a jarful of song. O, donkey, amid the comfort of straw in a stall made of pine boards do chiding chickens roost on your burly back. O, donkey, shards of moon shimmer in the corners of your eye eyes that sleep the sorrowing of stars. What voices do you hear from afar with your stalwart ears . . . O, grazing donkey, with the dark arms of a cross bracing your docile withers, you leave the daisies to flower among the grasses.

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