Flower muscle, that opens the anemone's meadow-morning bit by bit, until into her lap the polyphonic light of the loud skies pours down, muscle of infinite reception tensed in the still star of the blossom, sometimes so overmanned with abundance that the sunset's beckoning to rest is scarcely able to give back to you the wide-sprung petal-edges: you, resolve and strength of how many worlds! We, with our violence, are longer lasting But when, in which one of all lives, are we at last open and receivers? i |
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