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Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate
    behind your veil.
There are sixty queens and eighty concubines,
    and maidens without number.
My dove, my perfect one, is only one,
    the darling of her mother,
    flawless to her that bore her.
The maidens saw her and called her happy;
    the queens and concubines also, and they praised her.

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