Great shame may be obtained by routing
To my withered garden the years
An army carrying burning straw
Have come to smell the perfume of
An old man I ask the splendor of
The sky like a lost coat as long
As I am flesh and bone will never find
Rest—every spring weakens
Overcomes me as all the world
Grows more lovely my bowels—
Torn beyond the roofs of
The women’s quarters grown hard to
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