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Storming from tired centuries
Under the glare of a waxing death-moon
Terrible beauty of love severed
Rip the baby from the virginal womb
The blood of Jesus
Is the wine of the dead
And the drunken angels
Bleed with incest
The Liliot suckle on Her fruitful breasts
And yield the swords that sever and stain
There will be no act or passion wrought
That shall not be attributed to Her names!
