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408 let the dim realities of thine arms evoke some fleeting perfect image against the darkness of Cremona violins

—The taste of dust is on thy lips beloved

(and dust will settle in the shadows when autumn mournfully dances to a crazy prelude beaten on muffled drums)

oh let thy sudden smile caress mine aching eyes

let thy delicate smile

erect some momentary grandeur between me and the overwhelming darkness so I may mould my lips into some feeble sign of ultimate derision