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The
Lover
A thousand stars swarm inside my stomach
Each beaming a light whose source long since died
And though the cluster of this pulse is near
It travels still
from nothing to wherever,
And as long as I hold it, not wanting,
The fire of this inner sky flies and flies
And the more I die, the more it cries like
The whine of timber under furious coals
And I give my poor body into it for
Reminding who receive the gift of me
Of the stars inside of them that long since died
And so like an orchestra of reeds burning
In the fever of their song, we pass this life
Along. We die, and pass this life along.
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