The technicolor virgin sang
And nymphs died of her dance
Quaint bells of San Domingo rang
Love to its circumstance.
Flamingoes like a wing of flame
Kissed on a bank of cloud.
And when the sallow sting-ray came
Its kill was not allowed.
But all the sea was lit with flowers
And all the mountains flowed in blue,
And chocolate queens in cocoanut towers
Cried “My love is true.” 184
But ah the pastel virgin’s eyes
Were phosphor on my heart,
Moon colored seas were on her sighs
And we were seas apart.
And still she sang and birds were still,
And when she came I rose and cried,
“Our distances are not until
My simple heart has tried.”
She turned: the mountains waited there
Upon our pausing endocrine.
I split her kisses with despair
Guilt crying, “This might not have been.”
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