On that sealed glass in lovers' sighs, while the train left again, with a kiss I blew us a large flower with bright, many dreams for the diva. My Irene, your eyes are water lilies on my heart perched in the bastion of your curls; sfiocchi peace lips from trembling like the kite string. I left you with a whistle, sleepers for lancets, every look has popped its end, but touched, six appearance of perfect softness, breathless. Umberto F. M. Cefalà
17/07/12
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