Does it make you angry, Specter,
this quiet crystal, cold and tame,
that we bathe with wine and nectar
and call by your unaltered name?
Are you flattered when your glory
is the center of the story
we dramatize in every length,
exaggerating manly strength?
Or are both the same? For neither
is true, perhaps. I like to think
of you as touchable, cheeks pink,
breathing, more alive than either,
but I'm mistaken, too, I'm sure,
so are you angry, Belamour?
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