Their time past, pulled down cracked and flung to the fire go up in a roar All recognition lost, burnt clean clean in the flame, the green dispersed, a living red, flame red, red as blood wakes on the ash--
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What power has love but forgiveness In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise
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Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady's slipper.
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You said, Unless there is some spark, some spirit we keep within ourselves, life, a...
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The perfect man of action, is the suicide.
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