The pulse resides in the triangle

Of the soles’ arch angle

With a steady beat

In both cool and stifling heat

The blood of fi phi fo

Going far down below

Rising up through the centre

Unlike a tarty dolled up pretender

Through the thorax to the heart

The dipolar rhythm of stop and start

To the palms the feelings go

Passing truth with a flow

Tick and tock the mouse goes round

With an undulating sound

Then to wake with a clang and clutter

And a whine, a whoosh and a mutter

Then a shuddering magnetic roar

Up she flies, and then to soar

Hands of heart and soles of rhythm

Never lost in a skism

Creating resonance of distance longer

As her heart now beats much stronger.

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