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And still we danced, there
in the garden, challenging the sun
with our fire as it
concentrated on it's battle with the moon.

We mirrored their contest
in the swaying of our limbs, there
in the garden as though hypnotised;
eye met eye, and still you would not yield.

There is a taunting in your glance yet
that quells my ardour, a chill in your smile:
irony is no substitute for revenge
my sour angel