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Do not go among the temples
or among the houses of the many.
Do not pass where the black
stones rise and the high spire
of the pinnacle strikes blood
from the sky; daughter, promise me this.

All of our learning has come to this:
We have built books into the walls of our temples
seen the iron and gold in our blood
made from one, many.
Copernicus sits on his spire
gazing into the black.

The rainbow from ultraviolet to black
can be seen on this
fluoroscope; each spire
a color invisible; between your temples
neurons fire, forcing your heartbeat forward in the many
tangled impulses carried by your blood.

We collect these words for blood:
red, rust, iron, black,
and from among the many
we choose our favorites; this
is the mortar for our temples.
This is the foundation of our spire

But in the fields beyond the spire
where the wild cats strike blood
from rushing gazelles, where temples
lie in ruins, unbuilt by time into black
stones. Do not go there; on this
plain the monsters are many.

Do not go to the plain, among the many
beasts; stay in sight of the spire
of the cathedral. Promise me this,
daughter, blood of my blood.
Do not go among the black
stones of the lonely temples

We are no longer many, and our temples
stand forgotten, each spire broken in the black
soil; we have sown this land with our blood.

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