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■ The oak
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-12-20 | | Submited by Ionescu Bogdan
She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is wound in mine, She has the form of my hands, She has the colour of my eyes, She is swallowed by my shadow Like a stone against the sky. Her eyes are always open And will not let me sleep. Her dreams in broad daylight Make the suns evaporate Make me laugh, cry and laugh, Speak with nothing to say.
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