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Paris

de Mk-Ultra

The song of songs,
which is Solomon's,
I sing to her.

She has
eyes of doves
washed with milk,
teeth: flock of sheep.

We will break the garden wall
and lie down in the grass
while we are still young.

The song of songs,
which is Solomon's,
I sing to her.

She is
high as the moon,
clear as the sun
and terrible as an army,
approaching banners,
the sound of breaking bones.

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