O guide, wing swift to swathe my seed
in the blue robe that glints with stars
so thorn and nail will bore no bed
for vipers to squirt the toxin of rot.
From your high realm let sail a kiss
if black art roars and rends my eyes.
O sweet maid gird your slave with fire
in times of blood when wicks fall dead.
Your work is intellectual and mythical. Thank you for sharing.
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