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Again it can only happen in spring
knowing you bud, and I don’t yet know
the foam you will be. You will essence
of shell come back though, laying down
in the womb of a daughter, who already

ciclamini

talks to your heartbeat in silence.
And you, my lost love, already picked flower,
absent hug, who don’t care about arrival
and leave, you’re already throbbing
for your daring wish of bewitching me.