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The penny whistle begins to weep in my dreams: when was it I heard it for the first time, and now I cannot silence it.
It weeps, monotonously, like the water running over the stones in Jonkershoek Valley.
It weeps like the wind: it weeps in the distance. I weeps for all whistlers who have died in the long years of hunger and birdshot.
It weeps in the sand that has been drenched with the blood of passers-by when the bombs exploded in bars and churches.
It weeps in the trees, it weeps with the birds, it weeps in my dreams climbing the scales of sorrow and madness.
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