The passion of the look of love no longer plays in your hands does not leave us

 The passion of the gaze of love no longer plays in your hands, it does not leave us I turn my head to my cheeks I listen to you in untimely erosion and other reasons lull in our hands a cold I want to be the juice of your throat vaguely train on a bridge I think it is an adequate shade it does not touch us it looks at us pale bed speaks it flies high in desires calm and lying down light and arrogant from its vanity of simple cloth