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at the edge there is nothing but
music (we don't

know whether it’s a local
fly or an infinite
fly).

In order to reveal itself to us
the music must talk
with itself alone.

It hovers and crosses over
the continent of the table over

the mounds of bread, orchards of parsley, furrows of celery
wine valley and cascades of honey.

And if the measure is filled with joy, we know
there is nothing greater than this

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