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The Mystic Mountain
Oh, charming organic beauty,
Not composed of painting or stone
But of living corruptible matter
Look at the shoulders and hips.
And the flowery bosom
on both sides of the chest
And the ribs aligned in pairs,
And the navel in the belly's softness
And the dark sex between the thighs,
Let me feel your pores exhaling
And touch your down
A human image of water and albumen
Destined to the anatomy of the tomb
And let me die
With your lips pressed to yours.