How odd that all the feeling's gone,
The tender eyes of passion,
Replaced by strangeness, acts of form,
Words bitter, harshly rationed;
You needed to go to find yourself,
A hidden, someone other,
Bespoiling all your natural wealth,
Soul-merging with your mother;
And as she starved her little girl,
In turn you do starve me;
Neglecting those of your rich world,
Affirmed by poverty.
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