The weak flesh
Dress of silky black dreams
and marble sphere's layers
Seek nocturnal desire.
Breathe, through her moaning legs.
Like the open wings of a swan,
swing at the blue sun.
Contemplate, the rise over the devil course,
upon the weak flesh.
So good that death, may be sweet in our tongue.
That no Gods temptations, and afterlife,
dead will never rise.
Blandness flash swallows.
Redeemed pleasure of cast lights.
poem by Luca Menin
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