nobody was there
other than some remains of the fabulous party
in the last summer..
no whispers anymore..
but the roaring sounds of tide
which kept reminding me of
the irrevocableness and nothingness of the rich reality..
neither breeze was blowing
other than knife edge cruelty of a blizzard
other than some remains of the fabulous party
in the last summer..
no whispers anymore..
but the roaring sounds of tide
which kept reminding me of
the irrevocableness and nothingness of the rich reality..
neither breeze was blowing
other than knife edge cruelty of a blizzard
cutting my skin sharp into a number of pieces..
Georges Moustaki.. Il y'avait un jardin
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