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- Just past dawn, the sun stands
- with its heavy red head
- in a black stanchion of trees,
- waiting for someone to come
- with his bucket
- for the foamy white light,
- and then a long day in the pasture.
- I too spend my days grazing,
- feasting on every green moment
- till darkness calls,
- and with the others
- I walk away into the night,
- swinging the little tin bell
- of my name.
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