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I hear du com’s fae da nort. I wiss du wis anidder aert Bit wiss or no, dy needles cut Athin me bein.
An yit me bein tanks de fir da herdniss at du gies me reddir as da herdniss at idder aerts could gie you.
What would two minutes of peace have been worth back then when the shooting and barking and whistling and bombing never allowed you the space to gaze into your distant lover’s eyes or hear her speak those precious words she’d sent you, care of the front?
When war denied you the chance to reply with censored declarations of love what would you have given for two minutes silence to remember her and to hope for a time there was nothing left like today to forget.
A truth at kin nivver be tellt does whit hit laeks tae wha hit wants whin in whaar hit wishes hit wisna trapped in a boil wash cycle o denial, nivver allooin da indelible stained hert o anguish ta release hit’s aroma, ta love da chains at had ’it, dir ace i da hol langin tae end da endless stream o hurtful ignorance tryin tae goad da richt attention, ta be pit in hit’s place ta be tellt.
Whit does du tink hit means wi de faunsy wirds an de slack smile, bön wi aabuidy gjaain naewhaar laek da mapmakker draain da hert o Shanghai gjittin lost atween Dim Sum an fresh lychees; laek da accoontant blaain aa his credit an losin his cheenge atween livin free an deein aald; laek da merchant grown fat on shakkin his heid wirkin aathin oot keepin aathin in; laek da kind voice hearin ay hoo it’s wrang seein ay hoo it’s richt keepin ay oot a sicht; laek da queek tongue firin verbal bullets at conceptual targets troo a funnellin telescopic gless; laek da ivy feelin hit’s wye ee step faurder itae da wid ivvery day no keenin whit threatens hit ony whit keeps hit alive.
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