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Like a slice of pomegranate is the curve of your face
        behind the veil of your hair.
There may be sixty queens
        and eighty secondary wives,
        young women beyond counting,
    but my dove, my perfect one, is one of a kind.
To her mother she’s the only one,
        radiant to the one who bore her.
Young women see her and declare her fortunate;
        queens and secondary wives praise her.

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