The air of my heart in the dark season is more tired than the crap my sadness I have the size of the walnuts of Asmone see the dead in my passionate, my captive man You dont reach my heart. Always trusting my heart in the dark season more tired of the funeral I have the sizes of all the climbing of Asmone The sound of your own soul with my name Two hands in the shrine of love see my breasts in the soil of sadness I am a slave. Asmone
