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Speak hoarsely invisible King.

Pour molten gold down my throat

That I may speak as you.

Burn me alive to make me

A torch of illumination

Upon the sterile gardens.

With seared eyes, I catch vision

in the joints of branches—

legate of false trances.

With charred hands of 66 legions,

I waft the guerdon of odors

that have died forever.

Rejoice! There is no earthly leaven!