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You little box, held to me escaping So that your valves should not break Carried from house to house to ship from sail to train, So that my enemies might go on talking to me, Near my bed, to my pain The last thing at night, the first thing in the morning, Of their victories and of my cares, Promise me not to go silent all of a sudden.
Bertolt Brecht
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Read poems about / on: house, pain, night, poem
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Bertolt Brecht
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