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Last time I showed you a poem that had just one Welsh word in it.
This goes one better ... Neighbours ... by Gillian Clarke. That spring was late. We watched the sky and studied charts for shouldering isobars. Birds were late to pair. Crows drank from the lamb's eye. Over Finland small birds fell: song-thrushes steering north, smudged signatures on light, migrating warblers, nightingales. Wing-beats failed over fjords, each lung a sip of gall .Children were warned of their dangerous beauty. Milk was spilt in Poland. Each quarrel the blowback from some old story, a mouthful of bitter air from the Ukraine brought by the wind out of its box of sorrows. This spring a lamb sips caesium on a Welsh hill. A child, lifting her head to drink the rain,takes into her blood the poisoned arrow. Now we are all neighbourly, each little town in Europe twinned to Chernobyl, each heart with the burnt firemen, the child on the Moscow train. In the democracy of the virus and the toxin we wait. We watch for spring migrations, one bird returning with green in its voice. Glasnost. Golau glas. A first break of blue. I heard her reading it on the radio yesterday .... in the car. Me that is. Not Gillian. Now then, with yesterday's " one-Welsh-word-poem" I showed you how there were in fact more... I just stuck to 3-letter Welsh words ...this time I'll reap the slender harvest of 4-letter words and see what I can find ... That spring was late. We watched the sky and studied charts for shouldering isobars. Birds were late to pair. Crows drank from the lamb's eye. Over Finland small birds fell: song-thrushes steering north, smudged signatures on light, migrating warblers, nightingales. Wing-beats failed over fjords, each lung a sip of gall. Children were warned of their dangerous beauty. Milk was spilt in Poland. Each quarrel the blowback from some old story, a mouthful of bitter air from the Ukraine brought by the wind out of its box of sorrows. This spring a lamb sips caesium on a Welsh hill. A child, lifting her head to drink the rain,takes into her blood the poisoned arrow. Now we are all neighbourly, each little town in Europe twinned to Chernobyl, each heart with the burnt firemen, the child on the Moscow train. In the democracy of the virus and the toxin we wait. We watch for spring migrations, one bird returning with green in its voice. Glasnost. Golau glas. A first break of blue. Well, I'm sure you'll find more .. and there's plenty of 3-letter words in there. I could have cheated with mall ... which has 4 letters in English, but not in Welsh. But be careful .. it could get a bit obsessive. Anyhow, where's the poem with three Welsh words in it ? On Poetry Please last night the theme was In-between Days ... and they had a Menna Elfyn poem on it ( in the English translation) "Growth Rings" .... and this ... which has one unusual feature ....which I've no doubt you will spot ... off we go then ... BETWEEN TWO BRIDGES ‘. . . See, now they vanish, The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them, To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.’ T.S. Eliot (Little Gidding) 8pm Wind scales the river in its mud. It squirms and pirouettes to the tide’s score – dance of a reptile, forging its cast in silt. Here comes a friendly stray, with marble eyes. And here, someone’s ditched a fridge. Boats ghost-boats, Anon’s boarded-up work wait beyond plank and oil drum jetties for names to be painted back – Angela . . . Dragonfly . . . Pride of Newport . . . Norma’s Ark . . . I look for her name. (It brought me here from clearer water, twenty years upstream). A swan drifts down to a castle’s ruin. A train crosses. On board’s my teenage ghost. “Tonight,” he mimes, “I’ll walk these streets with you. I’ll break my journey here. We’ll walk all night then one of us will stay and one take flight.” Redundant steel poles form a queue. Their heads sprout dead sprigs, buds whose clenched fists shake at the blue sky, its sails drifting, too easily, out to sea. 11pm I meet him inside a symmetrical park, where Edwardians, in ghostly whites swing massive pendulums and the moon rolls through football goals. I meet him where they can’t touch us – the bridge limpers, the black eyes, the vet bills for three-legged dogs the piss emporiums, the furnaces, the palest faces to miss the last train home. I meet him inside a symmetrical park. We touch fingers, touch trees, kick through shallow leaves through Hornbeam, Sallow Willow, Maidenhair, Flowering Ash . . . The smoky heads on glass pillows, the limpers from east to west in time for the last bus they can’t touch us. 2am I follow his stagger up Stow Hill. Taxi lights transfigure him, draped in plastic road signs: chevrons, white arrows on blue shields – King Cone. The wind beats its head on stone, on glass, on Linda Barker’s smile. Perhaps he has walked from hell and perhaps I am dreaming him but I follow him, past lock-ups where a hell’s angel’s dream, in pieces, is shown the light. I follow him over the motorway. Tracks, pylons, scrapyards . . . the town’s raw nerves twinkle, a child’s dream lulled in the moon’s headlamp. I follow him under a railway bridge, its thin, wire whine of breaks or is it the wind’s harmonica? Between two bridges I follow him past a wave sculpted in steel, a boat they found inside the mud and thought an ark to save the port . . . The same current underfoot drags us on. I can’t keep up. I catch the breath of those who drowned to keep afloat this listing town, the steel hull of it. Only the wind raises them and a few words perhaps, a name cut in marble or wood. (I am not too drunk to salute them). The bank runs out. He sheds his cape. A smudged lamp erases him. The cradle under the big bridge is a pendulum, marking time. It ferries its load, back and fore . . . The river shuffles on to the sea. 5am The river’s nightshift nears its end, slips through an arch of daylight. Cranes, their loads still, have caught nothing but stars all night. The first train. His face in mine and, mirrored, a half-raised hand. He should smile. Soon he’ll be walking greener banks with his friends, setting nightlines, building fires, though I shan’t envy him except when he’s drinking it dry and, walking in this later time, I notice the river, barely a slough of itself in the cracked mud – as if the moon had taken a long straw to the years and sucked. He pulls away. The wind puts its lips to an arcade. A seagull on a barber’s pole waits to open its blades. 8am Wind scales the river in its mud. It squirms and pirouettes to the tide’s score – dance of a reptile, forging its cast in silt. Here comes the stray with marble eyes. He seems to belong here. I watch him chase and bark the river on its way. And here, someone’s ditched a red armchair. Prifardd of mud, I lounge in it. A train crosses. A swan sails near. Downstream, the cradle ferries its load back and fore, back and fore . . . as town and river rise from their beds. Like parts of a clock the small boats and their jetties rise. I look for her name, the woman who brought me here. If I wait I might drift, between two bridges, in my chair like Angela . . . Dragonfly . . . Pride of Newport . . . Norma’s Ark . . . I might find her. © 2005, Paul Henry From: New Welsh Review When I was younger I saw the Cure quite a few times...and I met Robert Smith once in a motorway services... Carlisle it was. The guitarist had his arm in a sling. I went back to the car and told my wife ... I've never seen her run as fast as that before or since.
Mind you , that isn't the only Welsh word in it... I've found quite a few 3-letter ones, and I've only done a fraction of it. There's plenty of her there for you ... 8pm Wind scales the river in its mud. It squirms and pirouettes to the tide’s score – dance of a reptile, forging its cast in silt. Here comes a friendly stray, with marble eyes. And here, someone’s ditched a fridge. Boats ghost-boats, Anon’s boarded-up work wait beyond plank and oil drum jetties for names to be painted back – Angela . . . Dragonfly . . . Pride of Newport . . . Norma’s Ark . . . I look for her name. (It brought me here from clearer water, twenty years upstream). A swan drifts down to a castle’s ruin. A train crosses. On board’s my teenage ghost. “Tonight,” he mimes, “I’ll walk these streets with you. I’ll break my journey here. We’ll walk all night then one of us will stay and one take flight.” Redundant steel poles form a queue. Their heads sprout dead sprigs, buds whose clenched fists shake at the blue sky, its sails drifting, too easily, out to sea. 11pm I meet him inside a symmetrical park, where Edwardians, in ghostly whites swing massive pendulums and the moon rolls through football goals. I meet him where they can’t touch us – the bridge limpers, the black eyes, the vet bills for three-legged dogs the piss emporiums, the furnaces, the palest faces to miss the last train home. I meet him inside a symmetrical park. We touch fingers, touch trees, kick through shallow leaves through Hornbeam, Sallow Willow, Maidenhair, Flowering Ash . . . The smoky heads on glass pillows, the limpers from east to west in time for the last bus they can’t touch us. 2am I follow his stagger up Stow Hill. Taxi lights transfigure him, draped in plastic road signs: chevrons, white arrows on blue shields – King Cone. The wind beats its head on stone, on glass, on Linda Barker’s smile. Perhaps he has walked from hell and perhaps I am dreaming him but I follow him, past lock-ups where a hell’s angel’s dream, in pieces, is shown the light. I follow him over the motorway. Tracks, pylons, scrapyards . . . the town’s raw nerves twinkle, a child’s dream lulled in the moon’s headlamp. I follow him under a railway bridge, its thin, wire whine of breaks or is it the wind’s harmonica? Between two bridges I follow him past a wave sculpted in steel, a boat they found inside the mud and thought an ark to save the port . . . The same current underfoot drags us on. I can’t keep up. I catch the breath of those who drowned to keep afloat this listing town, the steel hull of it. Only the wind raises them and a few words perhaps, a name cut in marble or wood. (I am not too drunk to salute them). The bank runs out. He sheds his cape. A smudged lamp erases him. The cradle under the big bridge is a pendulum, marking time. It ferries its load, back and fore . . . The river shuffles on to the sea. 5am The river’s nightshift nears its end, slips through an arch of daylight. Cranes, their loads still, have caught nothing but stars all night. The first train. His face in mine and, mirrored, a half-raised hand. He should smile. Soon he’ll be walking greener banks with his friends, setting nightlines, building fires, though I shan’t envy him except when he’s drinking it dry and, walking in this later time, I notice the river, barely a slough of itself in the cracked mud – as if the moon had taken a long straw to the years and sucked. He pulls away. The wind puts its lips to an arcade. A seagull on a barber’s pole waits to open its blades. 8am Wind scales the river in its mud. It squirms and pirouettes to the tide’s score – dance of a reptile, forging its cast in silt. Here comes the stray with marble eyes. He seems to belong here. I watch him chase and bark the river on its way. And here, someone’s ditched a red armchair. Prifardd of mud, I lounge in it. A train crosses. A swan sails near. Downstream, the cradle ferries its load back and fore, back and fore . . . as town and river rise from their beds. Like parts of a clock the small boats and their jetties rise. I look for her name, the woman who brought me here. If I wait I might drift, between two bridges, in my chair like Angela . . . Dragonfly . . . Pride of Newport . . . Norma’s Ark . . . I might find her. Yes, this time I'm looking at how the Translator-into-Welsh of the first Harry Potter book got on with some of the odd phrases, quirky idioms and weird ways of putting things that the English language is full of .. let's pick out some juicy bits shall we.... . and her good-for-nothing husband.... ... a'i gŵr da-i-ddim .. .. as un-Dursleyish as it is possible to be ... .... mor an-Ddursleyish ag roedd yn bosib bod .... ... Dudley was having a tantrum ...... " Little tyke" chortled Mr. Dursley .. .... roedd Dudley yn cael sterics .... " hen gena bach" chwarddodd Mr. Dursley. ... drummed his fingers on the steering wheel .. ... dyrnod ei fysedd ar y llyw .... Mr Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. ..Stoppiod Mr Dursley yn stond wedi fferu gan arswyd... He snapped at his secretary .. siarsio'i ysgrifenyddes yn bygog..... He was rattled ... ... roedd o wedi cael ysgytwad .. ... tabby cat .. ... y gath frech ... Harry. Nasty, common name. .... Harri .. hen enw hyll, coman .... It didn't so much as quiver ... .... symudodd hi'r un wisgar ... ..he was busy rummaging in his cloak .. .... ymbalfalai'n brysur drwy'i glogyn ... ..I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place .. .... Dwi ddim yn dweud nad ydi ei galon o yn y lle iawn .... .. bobble hats .. ... capiau toslyn ... ... looked like a pig in a wig .. .... edrych fel mochyn mewn wig ... ..! Atta boy, Dudley !" ......¡ Da iawn, 'rhen fachgen ! ... any funny business, anything at all .. .... unrhyw fistimanars, uhrhyw beth o gwbl.... ..she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins ... .... mai prin y medrai gredu mai ei Dudley bach hi... .. ... Marge's ill ... ate a funny whelk .... ..... Mai Marge yn sâl ... wedi bwyta cocos drwg ... ... he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruff of their necks ... .....gan gydio yng ngwar Harri a Dudley ... .... ... Ah, shut up Dursley, yeh great prune .. ....O, cau hi, 'rhen jolpyn gwirion ... ... he threw a dirty look at the Dursleys .. ..... edrychodd yn filain i gyfeiriad y Dursleys ... ... Gallopin' Gorgons" ..... Ellyll erchyll " ..Ah, go boil yer heads, both of you ... ..... O! Ewch i grafu, y ddau ohonoch chi ... .... load of old tosh .. ........ lol wirion ... ..he cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows ... .... Ciledrychodd ar Harri o dan ei aeliau trychus .. Well, I hope you found those interesting. As you can see, mainly they have replaced a colloquial word or phrase with a toned-down, more straightforward one... but often that doesn't have the precise meaning or slant that the original had. Notice also that all abbreviations and unusual spellings in the English version have been totally ignored. Translations have been called " kissing through a handkerchief " in the sense that you don't get the full experience from them. And now ... Y Cyrff ... Y Cyfrifoldeb ... â  ê Ê É î Î ô Ô û Û Ŵ ŵ Ŷ ŷ ç í á à â ä œ ç é è ê ë ç í ì î ï ó ò ô ö ù ø ú Ú û ü û Ï Ç ß Ü Ä Ë Ï Öñÿ•‡¡÷°¼½¾œ
Well, I've been ploughing through that " Y Llewod" book, which is the slowest and most stodgy so called "nofel antur" I've ever encountered. It seems as I go on that the verbs get more and more "literary" and the vocabulary gets increasingly obscure .... I'm half-way through now and almost nothing has happened. So, you've got to glean what you can ...and I came across this word priodol ..aha, I thought, "priodi" means " to marry" .And so it does ...but that didn't fit the sentence at all. So I looked it up. Why don't we just say "uplooked" like the Germans do ? They have these separable verbs that stay together most of the time but under certain circumstances they separate out ... offpissed will separate out to "Helmut was pissed off" and upgraded will sometimes appear as " Elmer was graded considerably up." But what about that priodol thing ? Well, here's a selection of what I found .. priodi to marry priod own, proper priodol proper, appropriate priodoldeb property So, when you marry you are doing what is "appropriate,proper" but of course in English that leads to property, owning, to " appropriate" as well. If we follow the "doing what is proper" thread ..well, in medieval times, the idea was that you would "go out" with someone, but as my mum used to say, there'd be " none of that" going on. If they decided to do "some of that" they would get engaged .... and this acted as a sort of fertility test .... they didn't want to have an infertile marriage, and this engagement time was a way of finding out. Then, when the woman became pregnant, that was the time to put things in order, to do the proper thing, and to get married. So the whole priodi family of words is linked to doing the proper and appropriate thing, and of course "property" is linked with that too. I thought this would be appropriate ( see what I did there?) Fun bit first ... this is a great video, with no expense spared on the "special" "effects." But ... here's the tough bit ... the words are pretty hard to make out ... what are they singing?
That is your challenge. And mine. Oh dear ! Or as the Germans say .. Oh Weh ! Oh Weh ! They always say it twice for some reason. Isn't it wonderful to have a project. It gives lazy gits like me a new burst of something I used to have ... energy, I think it's called. That's "egni" you know. Projects also tend to have spin-offs ... other branches of inquiry emerge, is a posh way of putting it. Anyway, the other day ..yesterday in fact ... a neighbour of mine, knowing my proclivity for Welsh, put into my hands a slim volume ...... but it didn't have that crap cover .... Then the neighbour said that I was to report back and tell her what it was all about. So ... immediate questions were ... who/what are the Lions ... and has "dagr" got anything to do with tears ? Then there's the blurb on the back ... Dyma antur gyntaf y Llewod. Hofrennydd yn disgyn yn Eryri ganol nos. Ond nid yw'r Llewod yn cytuno â'r heddlu fod y peilot wedi ei ladd. Pwy sy'n byw yn nhyddyn unig yr Awstriad ar y mynydd ? Beth yw trysor gwerthfawr y fawnog ? Mae yma ddirgelwch ... ofn ....peryglon. Ewch ar trywydd gyda'r Llewod ! Aha. So, for a start, -od is an interesting plural ending, mostly used for animals, as in this case. Mr. King says that " birds and fishes are represented here as well. And here's me thinking that [a] birds and fishes ARE animals and [b] the plural of fish is fish. Here's some -od ending nouns .... animals first chwilod ystlymod teigrod crwbanod colomennod tylluanod some of the non-animal ones ..well, some of them are animals, but human ones .... gwrachod genethod nythod llygod bythynnod nionod Then there's the dagr/dagrau/deigryn business. I can't really think what the link might be between tears and a dagger. A dagger "tears" your clothes, and your skin ! A tear is very vaguely dagger-shaped .... a rather broad dagger. Ho-hum. So, I've got going reading it. So far there's been a helicopter crash ( hofrennydd) and this gang of kids ( Y Llewod) climb up the mountain to have a look. A policeman tells them not to, and they glimpse a mysterious man. They also stand under a forehead a few times, which I thought was very odd. By the way, the gang build a tree-house as a meeting-place, and go up to it using an "ysgol raff. " I'll let you work out what's going on there .... it's interesting. I can't say I'm gripped so far, but you never know. Oh .. by the way ... older readers might remember the "Blurb game" It's simple ... you give people the "blurb" off the back cover of a book, and they have to invent the first sentence of the book. The one who is nearest to the real thing is, er, the winner. So, you know what the blurb for this book is . So what, in your opinion, might be its first line. There are no prizes, except a big head for the winner ... entries please to ths blog's very own email ..... [email protected] Terms and conditions apply, but they're too small and faint for you to read. Music time approaches ... you're going to get two bits today..... first off, the Welsh music spot .. this isn't my sort of music, but some of you might like it .... it's Nos Sadwrn Bach in action ...at least they don't seem to be taking themselves too seriously... As for the next bit, this is an English song ... well, American really. I heard it when I was driving the other day and it was so beautiful I stopped the car ! It's Death Cab for Cutie and " I will follow you into the dark" .. one of those sad and beautiful songs that you come across sometimes .... I wouldn't want anyone to miss out on hearing it.... he looks the part too ..a modern-day Neil Young ... It occurred to me that had written quite a few bits of Welsh "poetry" on here and elsewhere... and I thought I could put them all in one place ..here, in fact. The trouble is, I'm not sure quite where they all are, but this first lot were done in response to a French poem in which they named a person and they said something about them.... it was just a silly poem really. My versions are silly too ..
Here's what I wrote .... What it's doing, as you will of course have noticed, is naming a person then making a rhyme with what they do or what they are like. Mr. Hurst burst, Mrs Vance makes us prance and so on. It's not The Waste Land or anything like that, just a bit of fun. Why not have a go at making a Welsh one. you don't even need any grammar really .. Mistar Huws ... wyneb piws ! Miss Aberystwyth dim llaw chwith ! It could be just two lines... Mae pioden gan Olwen Yn eistedd ar ei ben or three lines.... Angharad, merch ifanc tra oedd hi yn y banc Gaeth hi darn o tanc ! or bigger .... Selwyn Gelert, postmon seimllyd Liciodd yn ormodol Creision Hud Prynodd e llawer o CDs drud Yn anffodus clywedodd e dim byd Achos y drydan dim yn gweithio ar hyn o bryd ! I'll put some of the others on when and if I find them. I know there's some haiku somewhere on here. And other bits scattered around. Also, all criticisms, corrections etc will be welcome. Really. I was only joking about those CDs being drud by the way. UPDATE [1] ... I've found the Private Eye E J Thribb- style valedictory poem I wrote for David Bowie ... Felly ... ffarwel David Bowie. Enwau wahanol Trwy'r amser Alla Dyn Sain Duc Gwyn Main Doniol yn iawn. Well 'da fi Hwn Ci Dôr i 'n hun. Gwisgoch chi Bag i Trowsus ar y clawr cefn. Dim mor Hwn Ci Dôr i nawr yntefê.... i know it's a bit mean at the end ... but that is the E J Thribb style. Here's what I meant by the Bag i Trowsus by the way ... A few posts ago I showed you lots of English jokes that would only work in English ... they played on the strange quirks peculiar to the English language. Then I wondered if it could be done with Welsh.... well. of course it can, but what I meant was, do any of us... that's me and you ... know of any, or can we make some up. I also mentioned a "lost" book of Welsh jokes which might .. or might not ... have some Welsh-specific jokes in it ... well, I've found it ( amazingly)(it's up there) and there is indeed one page of jokes which will only work in Welsh. It's possible that I might even have put them on here, and I might even have made up a few extra ones myself ... I vaguely remember doing something similar.... but to be honest this blog is now so vast that I can't actually remember. So, in a "belt and braces" sort of way, I'll stick them on here .... they're book titles with silly Welsh authors ... 80 x 5 gan Pedr Cant Joio mas draw gan Kyle Hwyl Sut i Ddathlu gan Carl Part 1 Dyfal Donc gan Den Derfynol Sut i Fwydro gan Mali Awyr Cau di Geg gan Dean Blean Treia Bod yn Ddoniol gan Huw Môr Coda dy Galon gan Gwen A. Neudu Coginio'n Gyflym gan Meic R. Don Sut i Fod yn Annymunol gan Ceri Grafu Ar Be' Ti'n Sbio, Pal ? gan T. Shaw-Fate Methu'r Bws i Fangor gan Daloni Fys Pa Ots Gennyf i ? gan Seimon Gwybod Gmerwch chi Fisgien ? gan Martin R. Agor Mwynhau'r Nadolig gan Iorwerth Mewnpreseb Wedi Bwyta Gormod o Fresych gan Gwyn Tafiach Ateb Cwestiwnau Mawr gan Marc Cwestiwn Mynd i'r Tŷ Bach yn Gyson gan P.P.N Amal Dowch yn Eich Blaenau gan Ray Tandy 'Sdim Ots Gen i ! gan Beth Bynnag Well, I did all that a week or so ago, then I sat on it for a while to see if I actually had written about it before, and to see also if I'd made any up ... and sure enough, I have and I did ! Its back in October 2015 ..yonks ago.... here's the ones that I made ( me! myself! moi! ) .. "Y Hen Whilber" gan Olwen Gwichlyd " Anifeiliaid Cludadwy " gan Cath Boced-Bach "Dyn Duw" gan S. Gob "Ble mae'r Gwesty ?" gan R. Goth "Yr Aderyn Du Enfawr" gan Billy Dowcar " Ble mae yr Arglwydd " gan Huw K'Ben Come on you lot .. you can do some of your own as well. You know it will be Terrific for Your Welsh !! Plus .... there is, or will be, a "Llyfr Mawr Y Pants Bk 2 ." Crumbs. NOT to be confused with .... So now it's music time ..I suppose it has to be, yet again, Trôns Dy Dad !! Sing along!!!!!!! â  ê Ê É î Î ô Ô û Û Ŵ ŵ Ŷ ŷ ç í á à â ä œ ç é è ê ë ç í ì î ï ó ò ô ö ù ø ú Ú û ü û Ï Ç ß Ü Ä Ë Ï Öñÿ•‡¡÷°¼½¾œ
It was St David's Day yesterday, and Welsh National Poet ( or something) Ifor ap Glyn was on Front Row reading a poem and talking very interestingly about cynghanedd and the like. That's him up there, wondering where he's left his bloody hat. Maybe we could have a little competition like they do in the papers ...spot the hat .... you cut out the picture, and put a little cross where you think his hat is. You could call it "ble mae y het ?"Then you send it in, and you don't win. Here he is in a more dignified pose ... mind you .. no tie, hands in pockets, standing in the middle of the road ... hmmm. So, if you want to listen to him, and I think you should, here's the link to the "Listen Again" thingy ..... it starts around 15:49 and finishes around 23:15 www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b08g2trt So ... that's your spot of culture for the day .. we'll move on to music ... it's Sobin a'r Smaeliad "yn byw" as they say ... If you were too lazy to listen to good old Ifor, here's the three neat examples he gave of alliteration and internal rhyme as used in your actual rules of cynghanedd ..
Internal rhyme ... Are these chips from Ipswich ? Alliteration... To swim fast, eat some fish. Both together ... You can't lose if you choose fish and chips. By the way, the hat's at ... rats, I've effing forgotten now. I hope you've noticed that that's got both as well. |
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October 2019
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