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As I often glimpsed paradise when alive
In the arms of women who let me come to them,
In a stream of clear water flowing down a hillside,
In butterflies over flowers, clouds in a blue sky,
In fireflies in the thickets of the night,
In the tears of those moved by pity, in their smiles,
In music, in song, in some paintings,
Yes, even, sometimes, in a slow conversation
With friends over beer and bread, I
Am certain, Devious Dante:
This is not paradise.
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