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All the cats will mourn
for me;
hunger-ridden – 
world sorrow reflected
in their big eyes,
all the doves will mourn
for me, they who gathered seeds – 
from my palm;
bee-eaters in vain will scatter,
silver trills of their voice – 
to wide-open spaces,
a gold feather
flickers in the sun – 
bindweed will mourn me – 
I drank their cups,
dew and vanilla in the mornings,
all the stray dogs,
skinny and limping
from pot-shot stones;
and the owls will sob
in pain – at night
with no one to hear them
only the stupid ants
will continue on their course – 
without pause,
and the trees will grow
and the hedges put on leafage
and moist jasmine
will sprinkle its perfume
and man will plunge knives – 
into human flesh –
stabbing and stabbing
without end –