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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-05-01 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu english] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di Monica Manolachi
He never hoped for you, he never not:
it was you who gave birth to a father. A baby, you wanted often to play with the only friend you had all day long but the drug of Work would pull him away to a desk, piano, easel or stove. If he felt you were keeping him from other life like salt running out, he might bark Leave me alone, in the anger of fear, and he would feel his voice quiver your spine. But you never stopped running to embrace him, teaching how gratuitous is love. Your father’s love for you, shadowed by pain, clouded by duty, was never as free. Yet though you’re now ‘tall as a lantern-post’, you still sit on his knee and hug his neck; but that he once frightened you still frightens him should he snap Leave me alone, meaning now Don’t.
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