I should have realized when he said he liked the music of Holy Week.
Nieva. On cobblestones, everything is pure.
An old railroad crossing,
a lifetime without mat, clutching
nerves and hand spun,
that soft feel pain with
forgotten for what it is all too common.
A new blot on the skin.
Nieva. On cobblestones, everything is pure.
An old railroad crossing,
a lifetime without mat, clutching
nerves and hand spun,
that soft feel pain with
forgotten for what it is all too common.
A new blot on the skin.
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