Her love longs for tears
Like the rain of her climes:
She would comb out her hair
With the thorns of the sun.
Her love longs for tears
And the birds of the air
Fly a furrow of slumber
Through a perfume of sadness.
Her love longs for tears
Like the lithe and the blind
Festoons of lament
In the ease of the vine
And the sleep of the cypress.
Her love longs for tears
Like the candle that weeps:
Whose pains are one fire
Whose tigers are heat.
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