Texty

O Child, Rose of God, that with such bleak perfume
Changed images to blood and body to a tomb
What fragrance you have lost and are now withered
Mere crimson, mere the dust
In recollections here
Of an unfading garden
Where of the myriad love
And all that flock
All that flock it blushed on
None other meant the naught
Written by: Allen Ginsberg, Malakoff Kowalski, Robert Schumann
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