Preparation
Those, who sit nicely under the trees with the sunspots,
who sit on cloth chairs, stools, seats, in front of the barbwire
as if on a line-up, supposedly to be painted on canvas,
play backgammon, read, keep silent — don’t hear. With
a band of the light-blue and the silvery sea as background,
they don’t ask how beautiful they are. At the far end of
the tree line the limping kid is walking with a dirty apron
on his shoulder and stooping he collects the empty, foggy,
warm pop bottles.
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