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Poem	Her sleeping head with its great gelid mass of serpents torpidly astir burned into the mirroring shield-- a scathing image dire as hated truth the mind accepts at last and festers on. I struck. The shield flashed bare. Yet even as I lifted up the head and started from that place of gazing silences and terrored stone, I thirsted to destroy. None could have passed me then-- no garland-bearing girl, no priest or staring boy--and lived.
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