Автор: Beramode
You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise.
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Still dreams - shimmering as through rose-silk fringe
To ache
To crave
To feel
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