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The beauty of you
is not a chance,
it can’t be changed by dress,
your haute couture skin
is finest crêpe de chine,
your inimitable way of walking forward
in which you leave yourself behind,
your knack of holding stillness
that makes one crumble,
your melting motions
worth a reproduction in sand
or might be better in snow,
your body is a poison,
a cloud impossible to follow,
your choreographer is smiling
somewhere from above,
your magma look,
your lava rises,
and finally solidifies
in my erupting memory.