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I live on garbage of the rich. Unfit even for their watchdogs,. Packed in plastic bags and dumped. In piles outside their mansions. Perhaps bought just an hour ago,. Is a feast to my five-year old son. Who gaily romps atop the piles of rags. Collected and ready for selling. To the women of Libertad Street. Who make rugs and carpets. Resold at a pittance to the usurers. Thus, I die every moment the steets.
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