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As a child I fell ill from hunger and fear. I tear shreds of skin from my lips. In my memory I lick traces of salt, of freshness. And still I walk. I sit on a doorstep, looking for warmth. I stagger deliriously
as to the piper's tune. I was hot, I opened my collar and I lay down. The trumpets sounded. A light pierced my eyelids. High above the pavement mother flies, beckons with her hand... and flies away. Now beneath the apple trees, I dream of a white hospital. As a child I fell ill.
