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p. 173


The night is fading. The stars are far away. Now the very latest courtesans have all gone homewards with their paramours. And I, in the morning rain, write these verses in the sand.

The leaves are loaded down with shining water. The little streams that run across the roads carry earth and trains of dead leaves. The rain, drop by drop, makes holes in my song.

Ah, how sad and lonely I am here! The youngest do not look at me at all; the oldest all have quite forgotten me. 'Tis well. They will learn my verses, and the children of their children. . .

Here is something neither Myrtale, nor Thaïs, nor Glykera will say, the day their lovely cheeks grow sagged with age. Those who will love when I am gone, will sing my songs together, in the dark.

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