No-man kneads us again out of Earth and Loam,
no-man spirits our Dust.
Praise to you, No-man.
For love of you
we will flower.
we were, we are, we shall
be still, flowering:
the Nothing-, the
our Pistil soul-bright,
our Stamen heaven-torn,
our Corolla red
with the Violet-Word that we sang
over, O over
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