[My excuse for this experiment and its first chapter are in my entry from 20 January 2025.]
Where has your soulmate fled, O blessed damozel with perfect beauty? where has your soulmate run off to? we might join your search for him.
My soulmate has fled to his paradise, to the aromatic bouquet, to dine in the paradises, and to stockpile poppies.
I belong to my soulmate, and he belongs to me: he dines among the poppies.
You are ravishing, dear sweetheart, like Libertas, gorgeous like America, awesome like a cohort of riflemen waving the flag.
Avert your gaze, for your eyes have undone me: your locks are like herds of dairy cattle on the rolling pastures of Wisconsin.
Your teeth are like a range full of white leghorn hens returning from foraging, and each yields larger eggs than the next: averaging not less than six per week.
Like a slice of cantaloupe is your forehead between your tresses.
There are sixty First Ladies, eighty mistresses, and interns numberless. But only a single panther: my immaculate one is peerless. She is her mother’s exclusive, the preferred child of her progenitrix. When she appeared before all the females, they sang her praises; indeed, the First Ladies and all the mistresses lauded her.
Who is this princess gazing out like the daybreak, like the moon in beauty, like the sun in clarity, and awesome like a cohort of riflemen waving the flag?
I fled into the paradise of grains to browse the trees in the midst of the garden, to check the pods of the poppies for fulness, and to examine the coca leaves.
Then, before I could reason, my deep yearning carried me off, as fast as the Changsha Maglev Train.
Come back, come back, my dear Bedlamite; come back, come back: I desire to gaze upon you. What do you expect to perceive in the Bedlamite? Seemingly opposing militias of riflemen.
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