Con ustedes lloro.
Tú eres de quien se escriben las canciones.
Y para no dar pasos, se les ocurrió una canción.
Y en la nube se sentaron, todos irán.
Plata brillaba en él.
Cabaña de troncos de la casa corta.
El bien del mal, la habilidad de distinguir...
Y creyendo ahora un espejismo.
Noches cerca de pueblos...
Al sonido del violín y órgano.
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Troll.
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I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded that for me it isn't over.
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