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At the trains we threw stones
wrapped in love messages and telephone numbers.

By the yoghurt-and-fish stand
we sold pancakes
with roses. No one bought
from us more than once. You said
birds moved the blades of the mill.

Tossing dough, your hands became the shape
of a shape. The motherland was younger than us.

There was another town where you were
milkman and I was the mill.

Where you rubbed knots off my back
and piled them behind us.

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