As a poet oft I sit and sweat

With face ablaze as countenance

And thru durating wheedled suns

Endure the stiffening arc aplomb

A land of sand and whirring fans

Of hurricaned and paddied lands

And scents of burning wood, steamy bush,

Untold flowers and unnameable fruits

Which grow around trees of mystery

Amid ramshackle huts embraced by sea.

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