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Mornings in Bais As always, the same old sun rises over my weary eyes in the city of desiccated peasants

and wooden caskets. The whistle of the maya birds echoes, again and again, in my garden. The same apparition of faces remains sullen in the starving streets. The same zephyr sways the leaves of sugar canes and water apple trees. Here, where everything is filtered by my quotidian breath, there is this horror of mangled realities of a past within faded photographs-very morning, my shadow has the scent of ancestral houses. --!imon Anton "ino #iego $aena