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Canzonet One

Канцона

A red, feathery
fire cried
loud
in my courtyard, into the blue-black of sleep.

A wild, sweet
wind from the moon
blew, lashed at silence,
insolently whipped its bare cheeks.

And walking out on the mountains
the young dawn came
feeding greedy clouds
with amber barley.

I was born at dawn, now,
I will die at dawn —
which is why
I never dream of anything Good.

And my lips are happy
to kiss just one woman,
the one I don’t need
to fly with, off into empyrean heights.

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