art of the past
followed me at last;
painful that blast—
a crying heart
give me the hand
steps on sand
tomorrow, on your land
guilt that shine
mademoiselle,
mi amor,
my lady,
my love,
everything that you called
me upon—
makes me beg
like a nun
reality is the truth
but i kept mute
for as i look,
to find again your hook
love makes sin
hell feels heaven
face as thin,
sorries counted at seven.
