The eyes of which I spoke so warmly, the hands,
the shoulders and the ankles and the face,
that separated me from my Self's space,
and marked me out from every other man:
the lovely waving hair of shining gold,
the loving light of that angelic smile,
that made a paradise on earth a while,
are dust, a little dust, senseless and grown cold.
And I, I live (for which I despise myself),
and am saddened, left without the light I loved,
in a damaged boat, in a great storm's madness.
Now, make an end to the songs of the loving Self.
The veins are dry where creation's blood once moved,
and Poetry turned to eternal sadness.
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