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Dear mistress Feminine,
In the rat and horse's race,
You are a pipe -player.
Your calender needs no Sunday,
And arresting lake withers not,
At your wink battles are fought.
The swines whine, tigers turn lambs,
Trojan war, all epics of ours,
Rounding you, evoke and gather.
You are imagination, psychic cultivation,
A hang to keep suspended all things,
From your body journey impossible rings.
The poets prove underrate,
The artists wishes to be slave,
And the musicians flung at your gate.
In human universe, -you are the only verse,
Of cryptic, catalytic, dismayed, -blow,
Yours is the phantasmagoria's glow.
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