Ραντομ τυπισα στο φεις:
με
Ραντομ τυπισα στο φεις:
με
Remembrance of Things Past
I swarm deserted away, like glass...
Warm, and as fevers,
I am as flame.
I am death...
For I, I weave our blasphemies...
Wicthes painted me,
Like the mysteries created me...
Like where the poets breathe,
I were woven into blasphemies.
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