Behold her, single in the field,
The rarest of them all
What a man should yield,
Be enough for your blistering soul?

Burn the crude fervors of the world
The ashes be your strength
The wind that blows soft and cold,
Merrily, carry your wealth.

On the pyre though you be dead,
Shall rise again.
The flames that you left undead,
Shines on till thou art born.


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