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Grasp the scent of this dying bond,
It's the ashen skin that I wish to touch;
that flaunting citric odor from the vein of your neck,
From when we dawdle happily on the withering meallows
as we know how to thrive within the unspoken.
You come from beneath, that must be.
I am no dusk from an edged castle,
but thou, my dear, a saint's corpse.
It's the ashen skin that I wish to touch;
that flaunting citric odor from the vein of your neck,
From when we dawdle happily on the withering meallows
as we know how to thrive within the unspoken.
You come from beneath, that must be.
I am no dusk from an edged castle,
but thou, my dear, a saint's corpse.
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