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Bacchus

Green murmur, intact.
The fig tree spreads out its arms to me.

Like a panther, it shadows
my lyrical shadow.

The moon counts dogs,
gets lost and starts again.

Yesterday, tomorrow, black and green,
you circle my laurel wreath.

If only you changed my heart,
I’d love you like nobody else.

. . . The fig tree shouts at me, advancing,
fearsome multiplicity.

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