Twenty-one years ago, I gave up, and the smell of soap in my nose. A year after my first year. Before I could even say I was a teenager, I suffered from the pain of love and the main pain that remained in the whites with the cotton sweat and blood on the collar of a red rose, with a crown of olive leaves on its head.
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Whose mother is not nice. A shining laugh would be the brightest place on each side. He was swearing at his pain. Whining, what is that. When the effect of morphine passed away yogurt from the most gobble to go on. The child was my child, the woman and the woman are men and women, but the strongest.
The old teenager gathered around without. It was nice to talk to him. He used the words so well wrong that sometimes in sentences. No one could use it better than he really is. He would wear a lipstick, most of all, touching the face of the make-up artist's craftsmanship on his face. Anam was not a very beautiful woman, but she had a flawless smile, a kiss kiss, a blue, green eyes that played blue.
She was a girl who had never seen her father. He was spotted by his father in his diary, a journal never written to the press. When she was there, a little girl raised her life up against her shoulders even against her mother.
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The child of war-spared time of absence. He's just so new. Cigarette wraps but does not drink, in the middle of the night by car in the middle of the seventies from one city to another. I would have waited so enthusiastically to cut off the electricity. One of my anam's shadow play with his hand that big-winged hawk, and the stories that say a word fresh is in my mind, dear.
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