Pure, her bosom flows
Of milk. Sweet whimpers.
Oh how I wish for her love
Veins flower and flow
Son of mom of lover too.
Lover and lemon
Sweet shower of summer.
Whimper, even borrow,
From monks. Like whores
From liquors to sours.
Borrow hope’s knife,
No sorrow will kill the rose.
- d.c. ferreira
- d.c. ferreira
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