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Speak hoarsely invisible King.
Pour molten gold down my throat
That I may speak as you.
Burn me alive to make me
A torch of illumination
Upon the sterile gardens.

With seared eyes, I catch vision
in the joints of branches—
legate of false trances.
With charred hands of 66 legions,
I waft the guerdon of odors
that have died forever.
Rejoice! There is no earthly leaven!

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