Sometimes a piece of the clay
brainwashes like a heart in my hand
Everything wounded with angellic voices, the salt of the sea shell!
And piles of noble bread inside morning
in front of the red hand of the mud.
Sometimes a piece of the clay
brainwashes like a heart in my hand
Everything wounded with angellic voices, the salt of the sea shell!
And piles of noble bread inside morning
in front of the red hand of the mud.