Taste it,
my dear ones,
it is my blood.
It flows forth in black torrents like a
shall we shudder to say, of
biblical proportions?

I shudder not.

If you've read me, held in your moist eye the work of my
scarred hand,
you've tasted of my flesh,
if you've felt me,
that flesh is now made your own –
Take here the communion that
only the poet may offer.

Erich Campbell

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