I have closed off my balcony,
for I do not want to hear the weeping.
But out there, beyond Gray walls,
nothing is heard but the weeping.
There are very few angels who sing.
There are very few dogs who bark.
A thousand violins fit in the palm of my hand.
But the weeping is an enormous dog,
the weeping is an enormous violin,
tears have muzzled the wind,
and nothing is heard but weeping.
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