You are the issue of passion breathed into a hungry infant world
Where Art fell to the sea in the rapacious arms of Healing, her paramour,
The waves holding them aloft as he lifted her gown of soft white wool,
An offering of frothy foam he painted across her thighs as he swore
His need and tasted her salty pink breasts, his tongue an ocean swirl
That found the heat at her center; Healing and Art become one in ardor.
You are the stars that burst from Chaos as she gasped out your name,
Her breath a furnace fueling heaven and sister earth with one steamy sigh,
But you, Anshar, she cloaked in cloud, arrayed in rain, and bathed in flame
To minister to the parched of flesh and blood who cry dust and fear to die
Before their knees have bent to light and wants have found they can be tamed.
We seek the horizon of your arms, pilgrims who crawl to you so we may fly.
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