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Daydreams have endlessly turning
paths going over the bitter
earth, winding roads,
parks flowering, in darkness and in silence;
deep vaults, ladders against the stars;
scenes of hopes and memories.
Tiny figures that walk past and smile
—sad playthings for an old man—;
friends we think we can see
at the flowery turn in the road
and imaginary creatures
that show us roads... far off...


Antonio Machado
Translator: Robert Bly

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