And as a strange freckled god dappled fresh original ploughed landscape of that spare sour beauty,
Fresh is the cow and trout,
Finches be plotted and pierced
He trades rose moles for sour skies with angels of beauty.
If I belied my black breath then I know goddess have lips like roses like heaven.
So far from my cheeks false delight yet I know there are mistresses with red perfumes like red false love.
Then there more rare then sound,
I think there hear but my sun treads by with my heaven.
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