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Now we know where the pigeons sleep.

The boys pass on bikes,
Now women
Old and young,
Large square baskets
Decorated with the scent
Of real flowers.
Tired warriors screech above.

The tracks hum
Like a horse hair bow
Straining across the neck
Of viola strings.

Now we know where the pigeons sleep.

They will not hear
The perfect C chord,
Their dreams are feet and
Whirling wheels,
They dream
In black and white.