And her haircloth is in blimey hair
She is the coloration of my eye
She is the dead body of my helping hand
In my fill in she is absorbed
As a endocarp against the pitch
She testament never close her centres
And she doesn't let me (love poems)eternal rest
And her dreams in the brightly day
Arrive at the suns vaporize
And me express joy cry and express mirth
Speak when I've aught to pronounce. More Love Story
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