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The most precious blossom was gifted me,
One much like the evening’s golden silk;
The intertwining and outspread of thee
Burst and bled away: stolen heaven’s milk.
How lush and victorious it did bear
The most evergreen of all foliage—
Oh how dull, but so crisp, the borders; there
Lies no animosity on an edge.
The veins: so delicate! The curves: so soft!
To compare myself, I am a disease,
One that would tarnish the littlest loft
Like a sickle to the harvest with ease.
And yet this treasure I was deemed worthy—
“It is to you, I give this to”—dearly.
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