This in the stories is rooted in our pain Wing air and filling for lover
Sadly Missing Music in its whisper Empty of our cups thirsty
Where are you who are empty of the sound of the stairs Sham does not reach the pedestal
So what spring comes with the person who burn the love of the lovers of love in the breasts
Side in your stories in your own tale of my own Pulse in your hill. And you are conquered by all the stars of Hass in this province after this love of Moss
