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Pomegranate
In these bright white courtyards where the south wind blows, Whistling through vaulted arches, tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree That leaps up in the light, scattering her fruitful laughter With the wind’s complaints and murmurs? Tell me, is it the mad pomegranate tree That writhes with newborn foliage at matins Unfurling all her colours on high with a shiver of triumph?
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