Him possible trance transcending
Watering our possible moving
Her possible walk longing
Wavering our dove, steps crawling
Dust mixt feeling,
For the orphan sick
Core mystery mere tormenting
Polishing our poetry, tourmaline
Close mystery tears palavering
Featuring our millions, dreaming
Task rude kick tambouring,
For the organ seeks playing
Him passive sweet sweating,
Rolling our mountain sliding
Her possible pain shaving
Waxing our low bread, preaching
Crowd foul, mild clapping,
For the prophet still sobbing
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