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Pere Quart's poem about exile in the Spanish Civil War:
A full moon night
we will climb the ridge,
slowly, without saying anything...
If the moon was full
it was also our sorrow.
My beloved accompanies me
with brown skin and serious air
(like a Mother of God
that they have found in the mountain).
To forgive us the war,
that teaches him, that makes him war,
before crossing the line,
I stand up and kiss the ground
and I pat him on the shoulder.
(Original image developed on Bing)