To me he seems equal to gods,the man who sits facing youand hears you near as you speaksoftly and laughin a sweet echo that joltsthe heart in my ribs. Nowwhen I look at you a momentmy voice is emptyand can say nothing as my tonguecracks and slender fire racesunder my skin. My eyes are deadto light, my earspound, and sweat pours over me.I convulse, greener than grassand feel my mind slip as I goclose to deathYet I must suffer, even poor

-Sappho

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