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Down to its innermost speck, the un-
Consummated spark is burnt, and the ash
Is fed to the beasts of the wild. You
Understand me as someone who is still
Unfinished, who heralds himself with violets:
But even shame is not so strong as the
First most violent poem of the earth:
Of the olive trees and the two-winged
Vessel of your hands. The night is always,
Always a failure. But I will not tell you why.
