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june was tender you can still see her swinging in the moon-scythe like spirits or ghosts that nobody sees that nobody believes in june was tender you can still see her if the red-skin had been of flesh he wouldn't have spent so many years listening to june in the waves if the red-skin had been of flesh he wouldn't have spent so many years listening to the voice that there wasn't june would like to be under the earth like a beautiful stone-hand white open with the streched palm on wich falling asleep or at least intimately thinking |