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To the stream of iceland

I heed the call of your soul
of tempestuous phonetics that reek in thine.
And the salt of the storm
seedling in the mentholated nostril of my wrist.

I rented the cringing chin of thundery-piece,
and erected our ‘’ballad’’ of prophecy to the cloud.
As a menial, I pierced through the reign
of countable shadows that wiggle with
the cry of a scabbard.

I mumbled to the puny sea,
as I climbed your fiery eyes.
Dolefully without you, I signed plaudit to
time. Tale after time in mine.
I gained in the debt and wrote in the mold ocean that sleeps in the dusk
of the evening

Howbeit, the ballad of the mousy owl roamed
my heart, in the rite of rocky smile.
But my strength reaped in a piffle venture.

I backed the heavens to my rippling self
and vomited love to swim with fins.
Putrid prawn resprayed, on a Gerbera
as the meal-storm trusted the dead.

I would bury love and take plant, I thought.
This plate of mine now sedate time, I thought.
I was cool, while the sea was drunk of me,
secured of the mensch who drew me.
I pray you uphold the fealty, as you are,
for I was free from aprons.
I spoke one side of Babel
and hark another side of Babel.
The walls were trumpeted and the gates
trended by the duke of troy.

I was sicken to remember the senile of mine
of a semi-race that crowned me still.
I parted anchor.
But, lift, scummy,
I sailed to slavery.
To Iceland.

I knew Africa in the world,
Iceland in sleep.
And thine love in dreams.
My lips gleam for naught
and I confessed, see my heart tear in a gloss of love

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