If the body is a sacred animal
The soul is slowly eating away
If the fires of so-called love
Burn everything to the ground
Does it go on eating
And planning suppers
Only the fittest can survive heaven
And then move on to a true paradise
Where they are put to work
Pulling burrs out of a silk garment
In the great flat fields of light
From which they grind their flour
Simple farmers and retired kings
Unrequited queens sipping wine
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