SONG OF WOMEN
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ow beautiful is the flesh of women--Their throats, their breasts!My wonder is a flame which burns,A flame which rests;It is a flame which no wind turns,And a flame which quests. I know a woman who has red lips,Like coals which are fanned.Her throat is tied narcissus, it dipsFrom her white-rose chin.Her throat curves like a cloud to the landWhere her breasts begin.I close my eyes when I put my handOn her breast's white skin. The flesh of women is like the skyWhen bare is the moon:Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks,And sea-shell loins.I know a woman whose splendors vexWhere the flesh joins--A slope of light and a circumflexOf clefts and coigns.She thrills like the air when silence wrecksAn ended tune. These are the things not made by hands in the earth:Water and fire,The air of heaven, and springs afresh,And love's desire.And a thing not made is a woman's flesh,Sorrow and mirth!She tightens the strings on the lyric lyre,And she drips the wine.Her breasts bud out as pink and neshAs buds on the vine:For fire and water and air are flesh,And love is the shrine.
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