From the ***** of God, multitudes of visions cascade
In to the peripheries of consciousness
Epiphanies herded in to magnificent parade
Fulsome in all their lusciousness
Which God it is is not always clear
But the form of her Beauty is sharp and sure
The enchantment grows as she dances ever near
Consists in her blessing perfect care, cure
Bursting out of the hinterlands of repressed psyche
She, spirited, splendid, dances
Sweeter than peaches or lychee
In enamouring trances
     O form of forms, your beauty sharp
     I honour you on lofty harp