So tell me, if you know,
what book lies open on the pillow
beside the lamp, in Magdalene’s eyes—
of whom it was said in that place
that her virtue, besides beauty,
was a pearl warped by darkness?
And whose was the hollow skull
she clasps, whether as amulet
or oracle, a voice perhaps
that speaks from beyond the grave?
What use is to her this sign of death,
left with her in solitude—
a secret she guards
upon her well-read lips?
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