La lumire t'enveloppe en sa flamme mortelle. Personne en deuil ple soustraite, tenant de cette faon contre les vieux propulseurs du twighlight qui tourne autour de toi.
Sans voix, mon ami, seul dans la solitude de cette heure des morts et remplie de vies du feu, hritier pur du jour ruin.
Une branche de fruit tombe du soleil sur votre vtement fonc. Les grandes racines de la nuit se dveloppent soudainement de votre me, et les choses qui se cachent dans toi sortent encore de sorte qu'un bleu et palled des personnes votre nouvellement soutenu, prend l'alimentation.
Slave magntique magnifique et fcond d'Oh et du cercle qui se dplace alternativement par le noir et l'or: l'lvation, fil et possdent une cration si riche en vie que ses fleurs prissent et elle est pleine de la tristesse.
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