Ask Morgana 007







I to thee:
Wash at my feet, Boutonne, while I
old, grey tree, standing idle,
do mind the bairn thou, love, once wert
barque by in Moses’ cradle.

Thou to me:
It is no innocence, ma vieille,
thou view’st in summer’s passing.
My thoughts are the reflected sky,
my lips the cold wind’s kissing…


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