Apricot aubades drift easy
close the plain's barbaric yawning.
The Hush of shells weave a susurrus low,
as a pack through the towering grasses,
stalking the scents of fig leaves and chamomile,
to her arched soles,
To which the black sand dances,
At which a serpent’s ballad gnarls,
The Enchantress of the savannah.
Mellow breasted heat,
tightens a drum,
and swirls at her thighs
and gnashing juju bones there,
and lulling thick in bowed dunes,
it satiates, cooling among a wellspring;
Her countenance strong,
Where patterned beasts quench and drown.
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