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Fearful Love Cherubim turn swords, cast flaming fig leaves on a cursed ground. With bruised heels we labour among the bitten, festering fruits of our ignorance, making thorns and thistles of our crowns. In the sweat of our faces, a pheromonic resonance. In our dusty hearts, skinclad, in cleavage, we hope to live forever, flesh closed upon itself, conceiving sorrow. Our trees are pleasant to the sight of gold and onyxstone and every beast and fowl has its name except for our nakedness. In a garden of talking serpents, cool days and lying Gods, I betray you to the voice and hide.
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