The flute moans, who hears?
For in the valley, the dawn's rays plead.
O my life...
And the twanging of my still string,
Your weeping is the moaning of the wounded,
Your tears are rain that does not quench thirst.
So be silent... be silent if you wish,
For in silence...
Is the humility of the devout ascetic?
Beirut Telegraph, Issue 8084, February 16, 1970
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