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I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the
The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the
Or paring of paradisaical fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless,
Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain;

A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quite
This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily,
Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber.

© Govinda Krishna Chettur