| The life of someone promiscuous is unfocused, unclear
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| Forgetting the crisp morning sun
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| On the face of the young beloved
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| The lines of her eyebrows so sharply defined
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| Loving anyone else so far from his mind
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| She is not unique, but seems so then
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| But after five, but after ten
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| When morning’s gone and won’t come back again
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| Then carpe diem
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| One morning I crept into your room, Young Kim
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| And watched you sleep for an hour
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| Your face a white oriental flower
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| So vast and soft next to mine
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| Your body, which didn’t belong to me Still not quite ready for rousing, moved lazily in rehearsal
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| While mine trembled violently in the sublime suspended animation
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| Of my unresolved arousal
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| That hour took me back to something so pure
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| That hour was, for me, transcendental
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| To long and yet never possess
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| Is, as Rilke said better
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| The best |