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Farewell, you cheerful folk of France,
My brethren’s merry throng,
A foolish nostalgia drives me hence,
I’ll be back, though, before long.
Imagine—I yearn beyond belief
For the smell of heather and…
At home I have a blue piano,
I, who cannot play a note.
It stands in the gloom of the cellar door,
now that the world has grown coarse.
The four hands of the stars play there
—the moonwife sang…