Do wonder what women are
If not a flame that lives
By learning how to hide,
Even as it strains and vies
From the innards of the dark
To search and dye the outermost sky
In red and orange like sunset dusk.
Yet the blaze, so searing to the touch,
Likes to rest and bide its time,
So smooth and soft in all its bounty
Within beauty’s listless liquid cast.
Still — in that form the good is bound.
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