BLOOM:
(Forlornly.) I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure to...
(Gazelles are leaping, feeding, on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves. Aroma rises, a strong hairgrowth of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the womancity, nude,
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