Do not mistake me for the one that writes,
Though hand and writing do belong to me,
Behind my eyes a deeper rhythm hides
Remember, Kubla Khan out of a dream comes free.
The story's old-they take a most fragile nightingale-
The needle kept on fire 'till it's hot
Breaks through the clear water of her little eyes
And damages the optic nerve a lot-
To get a neverending trill it will suffice.
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