On lips, fed deep with peonies’ blood,
sated with kisses, drunk with spell,
an andante tries to play its light—
and that jewel, burning with thirst,
is the small, sweet queen for flowers,
whose warmth, half-shivering, wanders
to the stars of a night flung open,
slipping soft into their bed—
from crimson flames and rippling waves,
a smile, hushed, intoxicates your gaze,
and a paean, ferment of pearls,
lays upon you its joining notes.
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