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--- N I C H O L A S   M A N N I N G


Ah déjame recordarte cómo eras entonces, cuando aún no existías. —Pablo Neruda

his hands upon * your body's curl : O nimble pain ! O out my eyes my second * sense (so) plucketh ! from out this fury to my * heart's revolt * my anger's awe as awful black-blood roses . . . too temperate were this marble's burning seer : its agèd reason to foul inconstancy upbraided . . . as all * your precious lips were to a ruby's rife wrong worth befouled . . . of odour of another's * life . . . O * death am I * O nothing to this my soul's lost aspect : ecliptic lip . . . while the black lake licks its blackened banks . . . so leave me to * this lonely field this black * burden where rank roses grow . . . winding round my * misery's life : as * patient * as the killing knife

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