At the caravanserai of our loves  
 swirling wave in Lent to be  
 raw  
 on the side  
 ricochet  
 smells good  
 the secret spice  
 lips offered  
 to the wind first  
 from a distant monochrome  
 elaborate seed  
 to the juniper of our joined fingers  
 than a dance with a thousand flowers  
 engage in the undergrowth  
 in the footsteps of lost souls.  

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