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The storm is over. Must be something in the air

A metaphor to keep me silent

Those small snowflakes that are hanging down

Swell likely to drop the iron

Down the river, in our hiding-place

We still not ready for archeology

What I became move us away

From prophesies and from sounds of History

Away from iron windows and flags

The first to remember Benjamin MiTudelo in Sicily

Will still hear the bloody distant milk away.