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The Hard Worker

Six hundred fir forests,
only seven junipers,
and right after those,
a thousand of the eight fishing water.
 
If you can't get to sleep,
you'll have to force yourself to lay down.
I see this part a little differently.
 
There won't be a burden, that I couldn't bear
no boulder, no rock.
Finally, when the calluses disappear from my hands,
the fervent churchyard will already be resting on my shoulders.
 
Industriously by the same eyes
the new day is being melted.
Both the wells and the pickaxes
I will forget in a fuzzy end.
 
Four inches long nails,
hammered with forge hammers.
The eye of a hawk is watching my gloves.
 
There won't be a burden, that I couldn't bear
no boulder, no rock.
Finally, when the calluses disappear from my hands,
the low churchyard will already lay on my shoulders.
 
I carry the perches, the timber, the crosses of the Mount of Olives
until the song of the last cuckoos reaches me too,
reaches me too.
 
There won't be a burden, that I couldn't bear
no boulder, no rock.
Finally, when the calluses disappear from my hands,
the fervent churchyard will already be resting on my shoulders.
 
There won't be a burden, that I couldn't bear
no boulder, no rock.
Finally, when the calluses disappear from my hands,
all will be overpowered by the dead churchyard.
 
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