
Your snow-dyed hands at the lilac closerie built the chimney of the forges without a cry without a care. The smile left over the shoulder without the rub Cucugnan's donkey and the soul of the parents. To curl the mind layers of yesteryear he is an atom of the present trapped in a straitjacket. Se dandinent under the velvet of the slates the prism of vertebral chords delicate lauds. In the morning of June clever with sweet kisses with you without fear under the calluna a golden beetle shiny from past nights slipped into tenderness on your landing of virgin threads. 816