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Take me across the mirror-waters; the silver ring in the quagmire as a dewdrop on a reed glazes the twilight into morning. Seize me like a sickness, for mornings do not comfort me or antiphons, the birds' motets, but the steps with which you lift my image free, and a drop of water; your knee circles in my thighs like a planet; take me across the mirror-waters.
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