her face was in a bed of hair,
like flowers in a plot-
her hand was whiter than the sperm
that feeds the sacred light.
her tongue more tender than the tune
that totters in the leaves-
who hears may be incredulous,
who witnesses, believes.
her face was in a bed of hair,
like flowers in a plot-
her hand was whiter than the sperm
that feeds the sacred light.
her tongue more tender than the tune
that totters in the leaves-
who hears may be incredulous,
who witnesses, believes.
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