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always was the clay transforming in his eyes
from the juicy fruits stones were slowly appearing he wanted to create lions but begot only flies forever galatea was born under a different meaning on his wet brow she put of amaranth a garland he gave her loving whispers and a kiss she died nevertheless and in his tragic dreamland no more was the light of every day like bliss to the forgotten masters crying then he went begging for just one scrap of precious core in caves he wandered on a dusty road and bent at dawn fresh clay he found at the front door
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