The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
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Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.
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Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead, While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.