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Bertolt Brecht - Radio Poem
Work rating: Medium

You little box, held to me escaping 
So that your valves should not break 
Carried from house to house to ship from sail to train, 
So that my enemies might go on talking to me, 
Near my bed, to my pain 
The last thing at night, the first thing in the morning, 
Of their victories and of my cares, 
Promise me not to go silent all of a sudden.
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