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my love is building a buildingaround you,a frail slipperyhouse,a strong fragile house(beginning at the singular beginningof your smile)a skilful uncouthprison,a precise clumsyprison(building thatandthis into Thus,Around the reckless magic of your mouth)my love is building a magic,a discretetower of magic and(as i guess)when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shallcrumble the mouth-flower fleetHe’ll not my tower,laborious, casualwhere the surrounded smilehangsbreathless
—E. E. Cummings
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