Lullaby of the Onion
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The onion is frozen stubborn and poor. Frost of your days and of my nights, great black cold and huge round frost. In the cradle of hunger my child sleeps He is suckled on the blood of the onion. Yet its is your blood [sic] frosty with sugar onion and hunger. A dark woman changed into a moon drop by drop spills herself bending over the cradle. Laugh, my son, drawing the moon towards you when it is needful. Bird in my house laugh out aloud.