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The Urchin

Оборванец

I'll walk along the tracks,
thinking, following
the thread of the running rails
across the yellow sky, the scarlet sky.

I'll go to the gloomy
station, shivering —
if the watchmen don't shout
and chase me off.

And later, determined to remember,
I'll think — again, again —
of the beautiful lady, and how she looked up,
quickly, as she got into the train.

Proud, distant:
Why should she care if I love her?
But when will I ever see
another lady with eyes so blue!

I'll tell my friend,
I'll tease him, a little,
when evening spreads smoke
across the meadow.

And with an ugly smile
he'll say, "You see?
You read all kinds of junk
and you start to talk like that."

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