Within us, two
sources of dream.
The first, bound
to flesh, closest
to the surface,
luminous, cold.
Addicted to its
nerve and pleasure:
touching flame,
seeing (as desire)
a blood-tinged flower,
breathing in the scent
of violet. The second,
primal, deeper, heated
core. No light passes
through its being;
spreads its wings,
whose purpose is
to hunt the world
for heavenly things.
It cannot use
its senses but
it knows the way.
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