Whether they are Angry or Shamed, the swans blush before your grace. The treasurie's pearls shudder in front of your eyes that hold the world. Rose lips trace down till the apple that sways at your throat, bobbing once, thrice, sighs.
The tinkle of a music box, embedded with the voice of a nymph, cannot compare with your quiet sounds of pleasure. It is a wonder, how God's hand plays. Placing an angel on Land in front of an ogre of a man. Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur
And yet, I yearn just like the moon pulls at the waves as I dream of reaching your hand. Yes, I cannot help but look with beastly eyes to write this verse Every Thursday Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; Quique amavit, cras amet