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On a walk in winter

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It is the joy that is endurance in the hardness of things. A bird, a sparrow of ruffling feathers, I dare to fly and rest in season, trembling on the line in the wind. Is it the force of hell against me, or is it the wind? I sing at its push and call it the wind. Air settles down with a grace and the force of pain is turned to praise.


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