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Grigore watched the vendor until he finished hauling the crates into the cellar, then he headed towards the mill, grinding in his mind plans for the coming holidays. In front of him, swathed in the light of an April afternoon, red flags were fluttering here and there, and among them the militiaman glimpsed excitedly the white wings of the ghost which protected him from between the walls of the mill and which gave him faith in life. Now it was fastened to the immaculate sky, above the sandpaper road, and it seemed to Grigore that it was swaying to the rhythm of the ringdoves’ song...

 
Imigrantii
Atunci i-am ars două palme
Zogru
Medgidia, orasul de apoi
Zugzwang sau Strada cu o singura iesire
Darul lui Serafim
Un singur cer deasupra lor
parteneri parteneri parteneri parteneri

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