About the flesh and its compartments
But it’s not the body’s fault
No body wants to be sold or bought
Yet every seven years
We receive a new one
But what body builds itself
Clearly each is a construction
Using the ruins at hand
Blending in the beauty learned
The leaning towers of perfection
From which the soul has fallen
Maybe the body is our noblest part
To which the soul and all
Can only aspire or distort
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