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The master of days
Wraps himself in the
wing of
Seven doves,
He gets into the
whiteness,
He steps out.
ELKHA,
ELMEEM,
Made old by
suddenness,
I pick up
The mornings of his
YAA,
Thus into my palm
falls
An incipient desire.
I shut my lid
In the serenity of
His SEEN,
And the seclusion of
delusion
Takes leave of me.
What option has
remained for me,
With the hissing of
the SEEN of Yours
All about me,
Smothered by the smell
Of EL-OUD
Amidst the locks
Of my hair!!
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