Words and names, the letters that are sovereigns
of the breath of men. The rising, awesome yell
of the ocean and the valley, the furious hell
of volcanic supremacy. I wander the foreign
languages without direction, I have to assign
a sound to a thing. I have removed the shell
of the seed, the skin of the fruit, and the bells
of a church are sounding. In the falling rain
she cries and is alone. The wandering spheres
accelerate in their orbit, white light bathes
her body in a confused meaning. Now she wears
the heavens as her veil, the decadent maths
of a mystic as her perfume. The texture tears
as the thunder's sound reminds me of death.
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