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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-08-06 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu english] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di jkloungsuh
There, in the corner, staring at his drink.
The cap juts like a gantry's crossbeam, Cowling plated forehead and sledgehead jaw. Speech is clamped in the lips' vice. That fist would drop a hammer on a Catholic- Oh yes, that kind of thing could start again; The only Roman collar he tolerates Smiles all round his sleek pint of porter. Mosaic imperatives bang home like rivets; God is a foreman with certain definite views Who orders life in shifts of work and leisure. A factory horn will blare the Resurrection. He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, Clearly used to silence and an armchair: Tonight the wife and children will be quiet At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall.
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