Here I am a wandering style

And you the bee waggling yonder

Beyond me:

There are the harmattan winds a blowing

The cool breezes of dusk fading

And the turmoil of noon a braising

Do you know the health the hearth brings close my brows?

Whose embroideries yearn too bountiful

But there aren’t the need being coy or shy

What health will there thrive in you

While the nuisance whither my strength?

Sense the under-crudeness of my appeal.

You yonder lie too close to the

Tranquillity of fattening your being

But decide the [sinning] that buoys

For you or for me.

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