In the land of broken dreams,
My mind inside teems.
Like a parasite in the corn,
My senses will be reborn.
----------
O harsh, beautiful Winter,
Your cold is the only antidote to the poisons of Summer.
Every night I rest my head upon thy breast, and think,
"What sin hath I committed ,
that you must punish me with your everlasting cold."
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Histórias de C.S Arp
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