I wake to the burning too unpleasant.
The rain whipping my face, this
Friday is the name day of human beings.
Who stole my love, heart,
brought it to life. my friend flames
burn, burning, my soul on the surface.
How it is grown shoots creative heartwood,
a common rate increases for two adults.
To grow the same fruit of love.
I would like to get the wounded to bear the forces
to feel a sense of growing, to see
darkness in the middle of a bright light.
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