To you, beloved Acis, all of me stood for perfection, shared.
You loved my eyes … my twin stars, you declared;
you touched my hair as would a weaver part gossamer of pure gold;
your adoration of my breasts, in strokes of lips, of fingertips,
just left me flushed in blush; you craved my mind: addicted to the poetry
that poured in songs forth from my soul, you called me tenderly:
Ah, yes! You loved my seasons that in essence hide themselves
in secret chambers, curves’ silk white, where only you could delve
to find in privacy's soft glide our summer, autumn, winter, spring ...
Through days and nights our everlasting doves would sing.
Now all the passion of your blood is racing in the river rush,
and calls and calls and calls in flux: Galatea, Galatea, Galatea ...
until the underbrush turns shivering in its mourning hush.
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