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[Page 207]

12.12.17

Belgium

My dear Sister

A few days ago I sent home a song in French copied from a paper dropped from a German balloon near our camp.  I do not know if you have attempted the translation.

Evening that falls from the heavens like the wing of a wounded bird, Evening which like blood - beautiful evening flows on red ripples which the darkness creates.  When I am unhappy it makes me sing.  Evening immobile and calm like a sleeping place, Evening bathed with perfume an unknown resting place where the errant & bruised come to rest.  I sooth in it, thou praises the sicknes which me torments.

For thy song sung with a trembling heart.  The infinitude of thy charm, oh evening

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