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You were not brave,
dear honey-heart: in the strange and vast expanses of that country that I long for, where narrow-eyed warriors pound the horizon with their wild, round-rumped horses, you were a cowering forager picking stray clumps of yak wool from thorn brakes and briars. Nor were you generous, my dearest penny-pinching Slav: while the others were slaughtering their best and fattest goats, you were fondling the tired stalks of last year's purple grain to make a pale and pasty porridge. And where were you when the pulsing goat-throats were stretched backwards and slit, releasing black jets of liveliness for a great and hearty feast? You were watching from your wife's safe compound, peering from the narrow crack between your woman's enclosing skins. I did not mind that you were not brave, that you were not generous; but why, little pygmy, did you enthrall me so with that late-winter shadow that stretched across the windswept plain? That shadow-liar was oh! so tall! so virile and erect! Little did I know it meant nothing- it was just a lying shadow made by a winter sun that was, as we all know, too short-lived, and held barely any heat.
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