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I am in the little field of my mother

Her field touches

oaks of the valley

and I touch the faces of my corn

Opening corn’s faces

so that my hands touch its braille letters

The face of corn is all in braille

the corn wrote it

Fires will burn this evening

burn the dry husks of the corn

and I will learn to read

Sheep will wait by the trough

for they know corn’s feature, corn’s humility

corn’s dichten

grain’s

granite too

Theatre of the Millo Seco (Botos)

Erín Moure

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