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The wood is a dark brown
and soft, but he takes a seat and
looks across to see an old man
with unkind eyes
and he begins to speak about
how the ruling class is like
the sun and without mercy,
but never incinerating. He is wheezing
and taking a breath from
a cigarette, that his wife has given to
him.

“One after another prisoners
were hurled from the walls of the
citadel and hacked to pieces..”

His wife takes her
own breath and
unbuttons her top button
and winks at him, with proletariat might.

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