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On this side of the poem, it's your face,
on that other , its hers, a word spins
dice gathering at the gates of
something or other,
casual carnal a sweet caporal lighting your lips
condiments to further captors night.
Knight? a mail of armor not amour
des mots
et des chances et rencontres
Each one wears the burnous
as the desert wind winds along
dust cuts eyes
but lovers looks never lie
neither rain or shine hail or lion long rivers
make a difference .
