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Deserted mountains, hoist
the provisions among

the fronds, I love
a burned country.

Only the sound of
quails can be heard,

gout ragamuffins through
the crags, do not talk

to me like I’m perishable
food. The sunbeams look

best when free, undress
upon entering the deep

hills. The rocks on
the green moss will

say: I love
the pigment in you.