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The
Intelligentsia
We always run away, from town to town,
we- intellectuals:
small and shivering, a tribe without a tribe,
a class of ineffectuals.
From country to country, we shift about with our families:
we each have a gramophone,
millions of us. But it's no use. They keep asking:
"Which country is your own ? "
And since we don't know, we can only weep
oceans of salt oblations.
Beneath fake palms we write artificial letters
and post them in dirty stations.
Translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer
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