Ithaca, with all its suitors, fails to hinder the fury of my soul, when finished with its prolonged tours, as it is mad with lust to see your body on all fours, aching hard for fire, burning into cinder. Homer must have known the sound of moans like yours because, when in romantic choir, your gasp of released air composes siren lullabies and songs like solemn prayer driving me to
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