"spinoza" poems
if you drill down,
past the hair,
flesh and bone.
into my mind
where the ego
and id reside.
then turn to the left,
and follow the i.q.
down the alley,
you will find
a place.
where on thrones of
cogitating thoughts,
king big questions asked,
reigns in conjunction,
with, queen yet unanswered.
they watch with interest benign,
over a field of an eternal tourney,
split roughly down the middle
by a chasm quite wide.
on one side
of the gorge is arrayed,
the banners of philosophy.
at the vanguard,
the epistemological knights;
plato, descartes, ferrier,
kant, hume,spinoza
and bosanquet.
the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought.
followed by the lesser lights,
and those,
obscure or forgotten,
who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and
to set the tent poles.
as to the other side,
that is given to,
the seminaries of religion;
bhuddism, taoism,
islam, hindu, juche,
rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo,
judaism and christianity
with all its clans.
they array themselves in cadres,
according to belief.
and to the rear,
there rides,
an interesting guerilla band,
of intertestemantals,
about 3 or 4 hundred years wide.
these are the few who are accounted for,
when god spoke nothing,
or perhaps
a lot but the message just got lost.
they number in their disparate clan,
alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans
and pompey the great,
not all, but the noteworthy.
across the divide,
by arrowing thought
were fought rallies of acumen
and battles of wit
and occasionally,
a persipacious fire was lit.
but there is one more player,
to mention.
apathy,
the great hulking ******
who for want of gumption, and get up and go,
sat crouched,
(quite uncomfortably so)
on a spire.
made of mediocracy,
cemented by woe,
in the iddle of the rifted abyss.
unable to decide
with which team to go.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
With wings like barn doors, perched upon the tower and scathing
The king fell, the Earth moved and let him drift slowly to death
Bukowski on the bedpost sang rosy melodies through tin can headphones
and the daffodils of a thousand fields wilted at the news of her death
Needles fall from the junky's arms, a rain drop escapes
Coca-Cola bottles strewn on a green carpet, smooth under foot
and the festival casualties drift aimlessly to their scorching cars
Pills fall from pockets as a forlorn criminal collects coins
The clouds disperse from the estate, reggae disrupts cats making love
Bass that resonates, crumbling cars and the warring between neighbours
Lay with her as the coffin descends, gun crime statistics
Spinoza makes accusations from beyond, ethical misappropriation
Stop talking, for your voice could make an angel weep
but the children still scream, running, frenzied on the lava streets
Cracking bull whips at the backs of a slave, ********** passion, weeping
and the sun sets in the East, proverbial middle finger to the populace
Franzen now teaches me how to live such a lonesome life
While the night holds me like a mother once would
Until I pass,
and the arms of Susanna Blamire beckon
Hold me close
I'm scared
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
A gentle tempest stormed my lawn; it stood
me still and then was gone. Anchored,
awestruck in my place by beauty and euphoric
grace, I thought of Spinoza's God, infinity's
precise design, the perfect math of Everything –
our love, a quotient of Divine.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
oh right... no social criticism... just a bomb will do? mm, yes, a bomb will fair much better... no social criticism... and only the political class are allowed a backdrop of satire... now i have to be thankful for a 7 year old schizophrenic simulator, the "inability" of the medical profession to misdiagnose... oh yes... i'm really thankful for all of that.
philosophy and its rigid vocabulary,
clutters up the range of ******
expressions, scientific atheism
is still measuring the non-existence
of something via the occator crater
of ceres as: ah... look at that... a cute puppy!
enlaraged eyes of a kitten pleading!
ooh ah! so so cute! mm.
actually, in #a, philosophy is the original
divination of divisions - centimetre in man
to distinguish him into a spider-web
project of thinking, feeling, consciousness,
sentience, animate, zombie,
it cuts cuts in, slashes away at so many
meanings, you end up with shorthand
of 140 character allowances -
so this scientific negativism - i can't
see any scientific positivism right now,
calling something cute as a puppy will
not really do justice to the measure of things,
unlike atheism in humanism,
where the projection of will is paramount
to define life, of how one human influences
another, if at all, atheism only matters in
how humans politicise, i love the fanciful
individualist definition that does not
really wish to congregate... and there we have it:
atypical to the English, the invention of
utilitarianism, the best moral action is
to be polite, or simply nice, to say
'yes, thank you' and 'no, thank you',
to say sorry a lot when commuting in the
tube... ah, mm, oh... and the other grand
pillar of utilitarianism? REMEMBER PERSONAL
SPACE... well spinoza could tell you a lot
about this principle when the rabbis
****** him: about how people were not
supposed to stand at a certain distance
near him... sardine **** of human sweat
on the tube during rush-hour.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC
Dom Frederick's book
of the old abbey
I had read
the abbey closed
by Henry VIII,
the new abbey
was my sanctuary
since my first arrival,
et habitaverunt ibi,
George sickened
for the warmer weather
the cold saddened him,
she kissed my pecker
to a new life
some other guy's wife,
for the sake of silence
we ought to abstain
even from good talk
Benedict said,
I picked a cabbage
for the midday lunch
and smelt the mint nearby,
birdsong woke
the gardens and me,
Hugh him of thin frame
moaned of the number
of books on my shelf
even the Hopkins poems
got his goat,
Dieu est à mes yeux,
in my sight
and what I saw,
on the seashore
by the abbey
we threw stones
along the incoming tide
and Dom Joe(Bunny dear) smiled,
and again she said
deeper deeper,
we become what we love
and who we love shapes
what we become
said Clare (saint) that is,
the French peasant monk
cut the tall grass
with a skill
I didn't have
his scythe swung wide,
travailler à prier
he said,
Dom Patrick spoke softly
about the sweeping
and washing
of the refectory floor
and how it was done
and I did as he said,
God is the indwelling
not the transient cause
of all things Gareth said
quoting Spinoza
as we walked
from the abbey orchard
to the cloister,
I kissed her *******
each in turn
as she had said
in her big double bed,
the bell tolled
from the church
for the office of Terce,
Dio è nelle mie orecchie
the Italian monk said,
I watched the monks walk
towards the church
and I walked also,
I am lost I mused
where to go?
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
My curves are not mad.
Henri Matisse, Jazz
when silence gives away its name
birds become electric
darkness is no more a story
in their wooden beaks
I stay at the beginning of thought,
decelerate reality
again and again
bread, pain, blindness
truth visits me in my dreams
sometimes
between desire & dying
shortcuts, blind alleys
Shangri-La and Valhalla
Nirvana & the hunting ground
Guadalupe
untitled self-portraits
fast heights
blinds & shutters
Spinoza's abyss
the chasm of reason
Kant's please mind the gap
pits of harmony
barren grounds
Prigogine's broken circle
lost aesthetic qualities
and the bit moves on
when silence is an unfinished canvas
waters, faces make an offering
and their names grow
when I am confused with the possibility
of the sea level
then I know where
my love
is
splitting every single second
is beauty
unadorned
could I remove the decimal point
from my dying breath
?
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
I entered the canteen
at mid morning break
at the cake packing factory
and bought a white coffee
from the vending machine
and sat down
and ate a cake
and read from a book
on Spinoza
the other guys ate
and read newspapers
showing page 3 girls
neatly unclad
I lit up my pipe
and grey smoke
rose in the air
what the ****
you smoking Benny?
a guy called Lewis said
it's sending me to sleep
it's tea
I said
tea? what the fecking
drug tea?
he said
no Brooke Bond tea
I can't afford
pipe tobacco today
what a stink
Egan said
like putting my head up
some whore's ***
there was laughter
I smiled
I wouldn't know
I said
I inhaled again
but I had to admit
it lacked a certain something
and put it out
and Pete gave me
a cigarette
and I returned to Spinoza
and God and the universe
and the room clearing
of tea smoke
and Egan told
some rude joke
about some dame he knew
turning the room
and air blue.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC
never quiet the proper arrangement,
watching a cat miscarry his strengths of
perfect balance on a fence
deciding to structure his escapism further
from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau,
and i know this is not a crowd pleaser,
no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile,
but as amusements go:
choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply
exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them
mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass
and have fed you.
so unless you think it’s cheap to state
that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski...
you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism
parabola there’s no going back... you can have
irritable bowel syndrome in the morning...
diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle
and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear
into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick
for the calmed metabolism...
i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums...
but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians...
same **** different cover story all over again...
and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat:
metabolism & alcoholism;
and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy...
like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank...
heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics,
that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote):
never come between a drinker and a newspaper
or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Driving to work I saw myself
how stupid I had been in my last three years
with my two lovely kids
my silent wife
my shining mistress
and above all, with myself
Coming and going from my pretty house
with flowers all around and lawn *******
with my finest books, waiting for me in my ***** room upstairs,
my long beautiful illness
& all kind of stuff
I was blessed every inch of these days
You are blessed, so ******* blessed, doctor Cozan
looking at stars with your boy through a shining telescope
in these silent nights of August
with fresh coffee sitting on Spinoza' s Ethic
and, sometimes,
listening to a deadly symphony of cows
and I never thought of myself as the happiest ******* on Earth
I've never cried for anybody
even now, when I' m waiting for nothing
(watching my daily ****
and thinking of her, the luckiest strike I’d ever had.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
The guys lounge in chairs
in the worker's canteen
smoking and chatting
and swearing
ogling page 3 girls,
I read
Spinoza's Ethics
Deus in omnibus,
two girls from
the upstairs office
enter to use
the drink machine
slim dames
one blonde
one brunette
ignore the guys
as they fathom
the machine's guide,
Dio in tutte le cose
I read not gazing
at the dames
but smelling
the scents of them
alluring,
hey Sheila
how was it
last night?
You give him
some huh?
Said girl
looks daggers
pulls a face
looks away,
I turn a page
then look up
capture nearest
girl's fruits
then back to Spinoza
eyes on the page,
guess she did
Lewis says
others guffaw
eyeing the two dames
wanting to paw,
ignore them
they're just too rude
the other dame says
waiting for the drink cup
to fall,
The world would be happier
if men had the same
capacity to be silent
that they have to speak
Spinoza wrote I read,
the girls depart
with their drinks
nice ***
you've got you two
Kev says smiling
watching them disappear
with guffaws and a cheer,
I close the book
their scent remains
lingering in the air
as if in a dream
they're still there.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
Benedict Spinoza's contingency was
grinding optical lenses,
his oeuvre the anatomy of the soul
turning medievalism on its head
heaven was neither ethereal or earth bound
A brave man.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
well, it was hardly or ever would be a respectable
musicology with mere rhyme; so we overburdened it
with ideas, those pit-stops of thinking,
those pivots of the former fluidity
that gave us Achilles... long gone
the respectability of not thinking,
so waiting awaiting the respectability of thinking
to un-think the existence of thought
rather than the existence of god...
i say forget atheism, and reading philosophical
books kept till old age of respectability,
those books are nothing but dust by then...
but i'm in agreement with the attack,
for who would want to sing a rhyme with mere echo,
the ulterior ego... to sing for a tennis match
of resounding a# a#, b b, c c, encoding our children
to merely encode rhyming patterns?
for fear of the loss of mimic or replica?
if i were a kid i'd love to rob her majesty's vessel
and encounter adventure than bookworms sneezing
dust for kindred death with Spinoza chiselling
optometric devices on a lesser scale in comparison
with telescopes - Amsterdam seen from a far far away
galaxy; if only you stood there, and experienced
the freedom that prostitutes govern in this city;
if only less legislative powers in your politics!
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
Only to please God
is why we are here
Dom Joe
(dear Bunny) said,
facientes voluntatem Dei,
he went and got me
macaroni cheese
for supper even though
I was late arriving
and a mug of cocoa
with skin on top,
agréable à la langue
et le cœur
a French monk said,
you can have me
anyway you choose
she said and I did,
the impudence
of the sinner
displeases God
as much
as the modesty
of the penitent
gives him pleasure
said Bernard,
from my room(cell)
I saw only the rooftop
of the abbey
and the grey slate
wet with rain,
Hugh talked of his
carpentry work
I made the chairs
in the guest house
common room
he said
he was no
George Hepplewhite
and I told him
and he sulked,
l'orgoglio viene prima
di una caduta
the Italian monk said
as we walked back
from our Thursday walk
to the abbey,
Dom Gregory stood
in the shadows
of the cloister
half in half out
arms crossed
staring into the garth,
she lay
on her bed welcoming
legs spread
her garden of Eve
visible and Elvis
sang from the Hi-fi,
I polished the choir stalls
after the office of Terce
and sunlight poured
from the high windows
on the polished wood,
blessedness is not
the reward of virtue
but virtue itself
said Gareth
quoting Spinoza
as we threw stones
at the incoming tides
on the abbey beach,
red and yellow bricks
on walls and cloister
and the church designed
by a monk and built
by local workmen
and I stared and ran
my hand along
the bricks as I walked,
ver a Dios y ser feliz
the Spanish monk said
as we worked
in the orchard
picking apples
for the refectory store,
the wooden Crucified
on the wall of my cell
aged by time and wear
at night before sleep
I would kneel there
and give it
an anxious stare.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC
Dom Frederick
talked of his book
on the old abbey
as we cleared weeds
from the abbey garden,
hyacintho caelum
et album nubes,
summer sun on the heads
and hoes in our hands,
a single sunbeam
is enough to drive away
many shadows said Francis,
there she lay
and welcoming me in
and so I lay with her,
amplius lava me
ab iniquitáte mea
et a peccáto meo
munda me,
Hugh sat in the novice's room
glum faced and turning
a pencil between fingers
talking of Dom George
and his knitting,
touching the rough bricks
of the cloister wall with fingers
as I passed by
on my way to the church,
dans l'amour de Dieu
nous sommes sauvés
the French monk said
as he showed me
how to lay
the priestly garments,
fingers on smooth cloth
silk soft as her flesh,
a broken spirit
is the true sacrifice
Dom Charles said
quoting a psalm
as he breathed on an apple
and then polished it
on a cloth,
no matter how thin
you slice it
there will always be
two sides Gareth said
quoting Spinoza
talking of his student days,
fiducia a Dio
the Italian monk said
and he sliced an apple
for us both to taste,
enter me slowly
she said
my husband is far away
he will never know,
His glory covers the heavens
and the stars were His gems
and the moon His medallion,
George said as we sat
in the gardens for repose
I cannot stay here
much longer
the nights are too cold
and my bones complain,
Dom Robert spoke
of butterflies and said
the Red Admiral was his favourite
and he showed me
as it fluttered by
in the cloister garth,
His spirit breathes
and the waters flow
the Good Book
Hugh said
says so.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
Life feels heavy —
as if I lack the strength to carry on.
Loneliness demands it so;
I've grown used to fleeing from what's real.
I watch others live their love-filled lives —
but it's never enough.
My body aches for it,
and so does my soul — to love, to be loved.
Since you,
everything around me has blossomed —
flowers in my chest,
butterflies in my stomach,
seeds of something new scattered everywhere.
If Spinoza had seen you,
he wouldn’t say “God is in all,”
but rather, “God is only in you.”
I want you to want me,
the way I want you —
with all the love I've yet to give.
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 10:20 AM UTC
And the guy said
what are you reading?
the canteen guys that is,
smokers, jokers, newspaper
consumers, Spinoza, I said,
his philosophy:ethicae, never
heard of him, Don said,
moustachioed, bright eyed,
tall and lean, sounds like
some vegetable, Kevin said,
small, wise of lips, short thin,
Dei ornent in omnibus, I said,
what the **** that mean?
Don said, frown of brows,
spread of lips, God in all things
or something like that, I said,
closing the book, taking up
my cup(cappuccino), all things?
Kev said, like in a dame's ****
laughter, wide smiles, gazing,
guess so, all things is all things,
I said, I sipped my drink, and all
things in God? Pete said, short
and stocky, ex jockey, that is
the way of it I guess, I said,
non diffondere gemme prima
sciocchi I recalled the Italian
priest saying years before at
the abbey on retreat, can I see
the book of that Spinoza guy?
Don said, I passed him the book,
my page marked by a thin sliver
of card, he scanned pages, finger
skipping through, eyes intent,
dark eyes almost black, too ****
deep for me, he said, page 3 is
more your mark, Kev said, those
photos of girls with ******* and all,
laughter, smiles, Don handed back
the book carefully, well at least
they say things to me, he said
grinning, Dieu au centre de tous
the French monk had said to me
at the abbey, his lips barely moving,
the words air bound, I drank the coffee
and returned to my book, cigarette
smoke rose, someone joked of his
wife's new dress a size too small and
her efforts to enter, God, I translated
the French monk's words, at the center.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
#Mom's birthday, dermatologist's appointment,
and a philosophy test on Descartes, Berkeley, Hume,
Continenetal Rationalists and British Empiricists.
(Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume)
Banyascki has on the ugliest vest I've ever seen in my life.
His hair is getting long, too. At least ⅜ of an inch. Wow. Freak.
Esse is percipi... To be is to be perceived. Yes.#
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
Seems endless
from the Downs
this view point
below us
I tell her
Jane looks out
her slim hand
shielding eyes
from the sun
Father says
God's beauty
from blue sky
to earth worm
she utters
I sense her
close near me
want to touch
and hold her
kiss her lips
but decline
desires' drive
to brain's hold
God in each
particle
she tells me
in birds' song
butterfly's
wing colour
I smell her
applely
or flower scent
eyes light brown
or so seems
Spinoza
said as such
I believe
I reply
who is he?
She asks me
her head turned
eyes on me
some thinker
I read of
in some book
at the school
I reply
studying
each brown eye
as if God
had made it
just for me
to gaze at
our hands touch
skin on skin
hands holding
other thoughts
deep within.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
That nobody editor from Leeds
she thinks she can tell us
who should write the garden reviews
She likes to think she"s backbone of the society
she's a townie from a town
too small for its yolk.
One day I push her into some thorny
spinoza
that be a gadfly for her big mouth
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 2:48 PM UTC
The water in the stoup
was cold and my fingers
tingled like a bell
in a shallow wind,
Dom James took us novices
to a convent where he
had to say Mass
a young nun served us
coffee and cake
in a small room
away from the cloister
fresh faced and angelic
in her framed headgear,
Dei pulchritudinis,
the tall monk tolled
the cloister bell
before the office of Terce
black robed and thin of face,
ascoltare Dio nel
vostro cuore
the Italian monk said to me
as we laid the tables
in the refectory,
she held my pecker
in her two hands
like a snake charmer
charming,
George spoke of the coldness
about him his hands he said
stiffen in the coldness,
Dieu est proche même
dans nos heures sombres
the French monk said
when he saw me
looking down at my feet,
I snuggled between
her soft mounds
as she sang a Beatles' song
and I kissed her milkiness,
I fear not Satan
as much as I fear
those who fear him
said St Teresa of Avila
I read some place,
I twisted the apples
from the branches
as shown by the plump monk
(after Lunch) in the orchard
tempted to bite
but didn't placed
in a basket with the gentleness
of a child,
et quaerebant eum
tangere manu Dei,
Ambition said Gareth
quoting Spinoza
is the immoderate
desire for power,
I walked the dark cloisters
after Compline
the bell tolled me
to my early sleep,
the young nun's womb
was as closed
as a castle's keep.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
Stood in the cloister
with the other monks
in the evening chill
before Vespers,
Dei ornent in omnibus,
all things in God Gareth said
quoting Spinoza,
cold water in morning wash
in icy jug of water into a white bowl
hands to face and neck,
lavabis me et super
nivem dealbabor,
these are my pearls she said
and this is my purse of joy
plunge into me,
I passed the tall monk
on the stairs he nodded a notice
he carried a big book
beneath an arm,
if every tiny flower wanted
to be a rose spring would
lose its loveliness Therese said,
Hugh said perfection lay in
doing God's will but without
God we cannot reach
perfection at all,
I cleaned the toilets
on the upper floor
with mop and bucket
smelt of disinfect,
the old monk was dying
and once talked of Plainsong
in high places and I
washed him and dried him,
in the shadow of her wings
I made hot love
like one possessed,
the church so silent
so utterly still I felt it
in my bones and soul,
the monk with a limp limped
into the choir stall
bowing his tonsured head,
refrain from evil words
on account of the penalty
of the sin Benedict said,
some evenings before Compline
I would wander the drive
towards the road and curse
in the night air
to get it(frustration) out there,
moon in shadow of a cloud
in the night sky and stars
sparse to the eyes,
when I see the short
duration of my life
used up in the eternity
before and after
the small space which I fill
cast into the infinite
immensity of spaces
of which I know nothing
and which doesn't know me
I am frightened Pascal said,
pour voir à l'infini,
the space between her thighs
where the body lives
but the soul part dies,
enjoy me she said enjoy me
as if a small boat on a vast sea,
the French peasant monk
dug the ditch with an angel
at his shoulder whispering
the Notre Père
his hands calloused
but maybe blessed,
I turned out the lamp
by my bed and sought
(without her in my bed
or head) a good night's rest.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
Lento en el alba un joven que han gastado
la larga reflexión y las avaras
vigilias considera ensimismado
los insomnes braseros y alquitaras.
Sabe que el oro, ese Proteo, acecha
bajo cualquier azar, como el destino;
sabe que está en el polvo del camino,
en el arco, en el brazo y en la flecha.
En su oscura visión de un ser secreto
que se oculta en el astro y en el lodo,
late aquel otro sueño de que todo
es agua, que vio Tales de Mileto.
Otra visión habrá; la de un eterno
Dios cuya ubicua faz es cada cosa,
que explicará el geométrico Spinoza
en un libro más arduo que el Averno…
En los vastos confines orientales
del azul palidecen los planetas,
el alquimista piensa en las secretas
leyes que unen planetas y metales.
Y mientras cree tocar enardecido
el oro aquel que matará la Muerte,
Dios, que sabe de alquimia, lo convierte
en polvo, en nadie, en nada y en olvido.
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Not To Laugh,
Not To Lament,
Not To Judge,
But To Understand.
~Baruch Spinoza
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 5:22 PM UTC
Las traslúcidas manos del judío
labran en la penumbra los cristales
y la tarde que muere es miedo y frío.
(Las tardes a las tardes son iguales.)
Las manos y el espacio de jacinto
que palidece en el confín del Ghetto
casi no existen para el hombre quieto
que está soñando un claro laberinto.
No lo turba la fama, ese reflejo
de sueños en el sueño de otro espejo,
ni el temeroso amor de las doncellas.
Libre de la metáfora y del mito
labra un arduo cristal: el infinito
mapa de Aquel que es todas Sus estrellas.
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