Then I stretched out my hand → and plucked a twig from a tall thorn-bush, 33 and its stem cried out: ‘Why do you break me?’ When it ran dark with blood it cried again: ‘Why do you tear me? 36 Are you completely without pity? ‘We once were men and now are turned to thorns. Your hand might well have been more merciful 39 had we been souls of snakes.’ As from a green log, burning at one end, → that blisters and hisses at the other 42 with the rush of
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