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I know Egypt and its luxury,
Persia and its proud;
but I prefer the caress
of the mountain's fresh air.
I know about men's trips
and about their quarrels;
but I prefer the bees
flying around flowers.
I know about the song of the wind
in the loudmouthed branches;
shall nobody tell me that I lie,
because that's really what I prefer.
I know about a range frightened
That returns to the stable, and expire,
And of a tired heart
That dies dark and without wrath.
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