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lethal woman

paradise is lethal
paradise is a set of lethal eyes
hell is a wheel of hell
hell is a wheel of lethal eyes
a woman is a wheel of a woman
a woman is a wheel of hell
a wheel is a wheel of hell

a wheel is a wheel of lethal eyes
a wheel is a wheel of paradise
the time of a wheel is the time of a lethal woman
a wheel is a time of a wheel
a wheel is a time of paradise
a hell of a time is a hell of a wheel
time is a hell of a wheel

time is a hell of a paradise
a woman is a lethal woman
a woman is a lethal hell

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Ángel De Mi País De Ébano

Completamente
Exiliado de mis deseos
Apasionadamente
Te sigo con mis ojos.

Mujer de un paraíso presuntuoso
El mundo te mira
Porque eres diferente.

Amorosamente
Mi corazón ha cruzado el himen de tu cielo
Conscientemente
Has mirado desde arriba las chispas de mi fuego.

Eres hermosa como un diamante precioso
Como una flor de una primavera que aún no ha envejecido
¡Oh! ¿Quién soy yo para aspirar a una sonrisa tan deliciosa?

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Ange De Mon Pays D’Ébène

Carrément
Éloigné de mes vœux
Passionnément
Je te suis des yeux.

Femme d’un paradis présomptueux
Tout le monde qui te regarde
Parce que tu prends tes gardes.

Amoureusement
Mon cœur a traversé le voile de tes cieux
Consciemment
Tu as toisé les étincelles de mon feu.

Tu es jolie comme un diamant précieux
Comme une fleur d’un printemps pas encore vieux
Oh ! Qui suis-je pour viser un sourire si délicieux ?

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Angel of My Ebony Country

Completely
Exiled from my wishes
Passionately
I follow you with my eyes.

Woman of a presumptuous paradise
Everyone is staring at you
Because you take your guard.

Lovingly
My heart has crossed the hymen of your skies
Consciously
You have looked down on the sparks of my fire.

You are pretty like a precious diamond
Like a flower of a spring not yet old
Oh! Who am I to aim for such a delicious smile?

Copyright © October 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.

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Barbara Gray

A mourning woman, robed in black,
Stands in the twilight, looking back;
Her hand is one her heart, her head
Bends musingly above the Dead,
Her face is plain, and pinch'd, and thin,
But splendour strikes it from within.

I.

" B ARBARA Gray !
Pause, and remember what the world will say,"
I cried, and turning on the threshold fled,
When he was breathing on his dying bed;
But when, with heart grown bold,
I cross'd the threshold cold,
Here lay John Hamerton, and he was dead.

II.

And all the house of death was chill and dim,
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Troths

Yellow dust on a bumble
bee's wing,
Grey lights in a woman's
asking eyes,
Red ruins in the changing
sunset embers:
I take you and pile high
the memories.
Death will break her claws
on some I keep.

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Transit of the Gods

Strange that the self’s continuum should outlast
The Virgin, Aphrodite, and the Mourning Mother,
All loves and griefs, successive deities
That hold their kingdom in the human breast.
Abandoned by the gods, woman with an ageing body
That half remembers the Annunciation
The passion and the travail and the grief
That wore the mask of my humanity,
I marvel at the soul’s indifference.
For in her theatre the play is done,
The tears are shed; the actors, the immortals
In their ceaseless manifestation, elsewhere gone,

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Transit

A woman I have never seen before
Steps from the darkness of her town-house door
At just that crux of time when she is made
So beautiful that she or time must fade.

What use to claim that as she tugs her gloves
A phantom heraldry of all the loves
Blares from the lintel? That the staggered sun
Forgets, in his confusion, how to run?

Still, nothing changes as her perfect feet
Click down the walk that issues in the street,
Leaving the stations of her body there
Like whips that map the countries of the air.

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Tomes

There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan,
and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books,
the ones you can turn to anytime,
when the night is going wrong
or when the day is full of empty promise.

I have nothing against
the thin monograph, the odd query,
a note on the identity of Chekhov's dentist,
but what I prefer on days like these
is to get up from the couch,
pull down The History of the World,
and hold in my hands a book

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