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Small, faraway things people cannot normally see
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are visible to me.
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These senses are the fruits of a lifetime of longing.
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Longing to be rescued.
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To be completed.
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Just as the skirt needs the wind to billow,
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I'm not formed by things that are of myself alone.
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I wear my father's belt tied around my mother's blouse.
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And shoes which are from my uncle.
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This is me.
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Just as a flower does not choose its color
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we are not responsible for what we have come to be.