Please accept my billion prostrations,
Oh the Cosmic Director.
Nebulae sway neath Your feet;
What to speak of sun and stars.
A heap of moonlight floating in the vast sky,
Upon the mental mirror it confers a smile.
At dark fortnight that same moonlight,
Where do You hide it, emanating liila?
Smeared on the bloom I see both pollen and nectar;
Within psyche they portray a sweet obsession.
Through sunshine's fire, also they wither away;
Strangely surprising is Your chronicle.
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It never fails to amaze. You almost try my love for Thee.
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